


An Encyclopedia of Love and Lust

by CatherineAbandon



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Childhood Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot Collection, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn With Plot, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:54:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26805436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatherineAbandon/pseuds/CatherineAbandon
Summary: An encyclopedia of love and lust featuring the boys of Haikyuu!! and you.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Reader, Bokuto Koutarou/Reader, Kageyama Tobio/Reader, Kozume Kenma/Reader, Kuroo Tetsurou/Reader, Oikawa Tooru/Reader, Sugawara Koushi/Reader, Terushima Yuuji/Reader, Tsukishima Kei/Reader, Ukai Keishin/Reader
Comments: 36
Kudos: 267





	1. Sugawara Koushi  - The Rest of Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a classic story of friends turned lovers. If only you knew what you’d been missing out on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, thanks for checking out this collection! For some context, all the characters tagged as relationships are the ones I currently have drafted to include here at some point or another. If there are other characters and/or scenarios you would like to read about please let me know in the comments! 
> 
> This lil guy starts as straight fluff and halfway through does a complete 180 to straight smut. Or maybe it’s more of a 90 to fluffy smut. Idk. Either way, hope you don't mind. Something about Suga makes me crave the best of both worlds.

“Are you ever going to get dressed or should I text the girls you won’t make it?”

“Are you ever going to learn some patience or am I going to have to beat it into you?”

There’s a breath of silence before Sugawara responds. “I am a master of patience, [Y/N].”

His tone is laced with something much more serious than it was a moment ago. You turn from your closet to face your closest friend where he’s sprawled on your bed, scrolling aimlessly on his phone as if he hadn’t just made some sort of grave proclamation…or something.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he says, tearing his eyes from his social media of choice and smiling at you coyly, “I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes waiting for you to choose an outfit when we both know you would look stunning in a potato sack. Now, if you want me to walk you to Nakamura-san’s for girls’ night you’ll hurry up. Okay, bear?”

You roll your eyes at the pet name and spin back around to hide your blush. In truth, it’s been nearly three years since you met Sugawara Koushi and you’ve never quite gotten used to his inexplicable charm. He’s so casual in his flirtations it always takes a beat for his meaning to sink in, and by then you’ve been reduced to a blushing mess. Which makes him chuckle. Which makes you blush more.

It was worse at the beginning, back when you sat next to him in your first lecture in your first year of university. It was a large class; you never expected the stranger next to you to strike up a conversation. But he did, and his shy smile and soft eyes made you that much less suspecting of his sly confidence.

“I must have excellent karma for such a pretty girl to choose the seat next to me,” he’d said with a smile after introductions had been made. You’d done nothing but gape and flush red, stammering for a response. “Sorry,” he had apologized with that same gentle smile, “maybe that was too forward. Can I get you a coffee after class to make up for it?”

You had agreed (less gracefully than he had proposed it) and traditions were born. Coffee after class, then studying in the evenings, then movies on the weekends. You were in the stands at every one of the volleyball club’s matches; he would meet you after each of your shifts at the cafe to walk you home. He never let up on the persistent flattery and you never stopped quietly enjoying it. But for some reason you never let your feelings for him evolve beyond friendship.

Maybe that’s because you’ve never wanted to jeopardize the way you can talk to him about anything. Like the insecure, jealous ex in first year who wanted you to stop hanging around Sugawara because you two were _too_ close.

“Can you believe it?” you had cried, exasperated, in Sugawara’s room that night. “I mean, he’s asking me to stop hanging out with my best friend. I would never do that to him. I _trust_ him.”

“You’re trustworthy, bear,” was Suga’s reply, “but I’m not. He knows I’ll steal you away the first chance I get.”

You had laughed and swatted his shoulder. Your jealous boyfriend became your jealous ex the next day.

Then there was the guy in your second year who didn’t mind Sugawara, but that was because he was too caught up with the other girl he was sleeping with.

“Ugh,” you had groaned into Suga’s shoulder, tears staining his shirt, “how could someone be so selfish? Why can’t I meet a guy like you, Koushi?”

“You have,” he’d said with that smile, rubbing circles into your back as you cried, “I’m right here.”

You had snorted through your sobs.

Most of third year had come and gone without much romance — save for Suga’s teasing. 

“I can’t believe we’ll be graduating so soon,” you’d sighed only a few weeks ago, now in your fourth year.

Suga had hummed in agreement.

“I mean, what are we even going to do with ourselves? How do we decide what we want?”

“I know what I want,” Suga had been quick to reply.

“Oh yeah?” you’d smirked around a mouthful of popcorn, the sitcom on the TV forgotten, “and what’s that?”

“You.”

You’d blushed and smiled, lifting a leg from his lap to gently kick his arm. “Don’t be crazy.”

“Maybe I am. But I want to marry you once we graduate.”

You remember laughing. Picking up the remote to find a movie.

Now, staring into your closet with burning cheeks, your mind is more on a night out with your girlfriends than the guy in your bed just behind you. _Right?_ a tiny voice in your head asks. Sighing heavily to disguise your pleasure at his potato sack compliment, you take a simple black dress off its hanger and tug at the drawstring on your sweatpants.

“Don’t peak.”

“No promises.”

He politely looks away anyway. You toss your discarded hoodie over his head playfully and quickly step into the dress.

“Okay,” you say, reaching behind you to fumble with the zipper. “It’s on.”

Suga pulls the sweatshirt off his head and you smile at the way his ashy hair is tousled by the act. There’s no denying the way his hazel eyes light up at the sight of you in your dress. You pretend not to notice.

“Help me, would you?” you say, exasperated at your failure to wrench the zipper up on your own.

Suga laughs softly, the crinkle of his eyes pulling at the birthmark just above his cheekbone. You’ve always liked that birthmark.

He gets up from the bed and you present your back to him, now able to see the two of you in your full length mirror. His fingertips brush your exposed skin as they grasp the zipper and you find the sensation pleasant. As the zipper glides up your back you take in the sight of the two of you. Something flutters in your stomach. You ignore it.

“See?” says Suga once it’s up. “Stunning.”

You roll your eyes for the second time and he plants a chaste kiss on the top of your head.

“Can we go now? Nakamura’s may be on my way home but I’m not going to sit around forever.”

“All right, all right,” you say begrudgingly and dive back into your closet for a pair of shoes. “I never asked you to walk me there, you know.”

“I know,” he smiles ( _that_ smile). You hear it in his voice without even seeing his face. “But what kind of guy would I be if I let you out alone at night looking like that?”

“Shut up already,” you scoff, hopping on one foot to get a shoe on. You can’t stop your own smile despite the bite in your words. Suga laughs his charming laugh.

Neither of you have much to say on the walk. It’s unseasonably warm but there’s still a chill in the air. You walk close enough to Suga that your arms touch, enjoying what little warmth the contact offers. None of you live very far apart, so soon enough Suga’s knocking on your friend’s door.

“Don’t drink too much, okay? And have a glass of water before bed?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, Mom.”

Nakamura Kaito opens the door then, looking stunning in a fitted skirt and expertly applied makeup.

“[Y/N], Suga-kun! About time,” she greets happily, tossing her long hair over her shoulder. “Yuki got here half an hour ago already.”

Yuki waves from her nearby seat in the kitchen, smiling happily from behind her glasses.

“Yeah, okay, not you too,” you say with good humor as you step inside.

“I told her to hurry it up,” says Suga from the doorstep, “but you know how she is.”

“Yeah, we know,” Kaito teases. “Why don’t you come in, Suga-kun? Have a drink with us before we go out!”

“No, I would hate to crash girls’ night,” he says with the smile (yes, that one.) “Just take care of my bear, okay?”

Yuki giggles into her drink and Kaito grins.

“Get out of here, Koushi,” you say, blushing yet again.

“All right I’m leaving. Have fun tonight.” He reaches inside to tousle your hair before waving to your friends and heading down the walkway.

Kaito shuts the door as you smooth your hair back into place, pouting.

“That _guy_ ,” says Kaito, walking into the kitchen to make you a drink.

Yuki squeals and you can tell from the pink tint to her cheeks that the girls have already had their fair share of alcohol.

“Yeah,” you sigh, accepting the concoction Kaito hands you without question, “he’s a ham.”

“A ham?” questions Yuki, “That’s all you have to say?”

“What else could I possibly say about it? It’s Suga.”

“Uh, you could say you’ll date him already,” responds Kaito as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You almost choke on your drink.

“Don’t act surprised, [Y/N],” Yuki agrees. “We’ve been saying it for the longest time now.”

“Yes, and when will you stop? He’s my best friend.”

“Ouch,” Kaito says teasingly. Yuki dramatically clutches her heart.

“Other than you two,” you grumble affectionately, taking another sip from your drink.

“Don’t get distracted,” Yuki says seriously, adjusting her glasses. “Are we really going to graduate without you once admitting your feelings for him? He’s clearly way more than your friend.”

“You two are being ridiculous. He doesn’t like me like that.”

Kaito’s scoff dissolves into a coughing fit as she sputters around her drink. Your pat her back kindly but fruitlessly as Yuki continues.

“Are you blind or just stupid? He’s been in love with you since our first year.”

Kaito’s coughs quiet and she nods feverishly. “Remember the time he stayed up all night with you helping you cram for your economics exam? He had been studying for weeks. What did he need to be up all night for?”

“Or,” Yuki chimes in excitedly, “the time you got mono from what’s-his-face—”

“Even though we _told_ you the hookup wasn’t worth the risk.”

“—and Suga sat with you the whole time you were sick? It was like two weeks! He even skipped a bunch of classes!”

Kaito doesn’t let up. “What about during Golden Week when he took you out to dinner with his parents?”

You stare into your drink, feeling as if your mind can’t keep up with your friends’ spitfire case.

“Also,” says Yuki quietly, some of the teasing gone from her voice, “he hasn’t had a girlfriend the whole time you’ve known him.”

“That’s not true!” you exclaim, quickly chasing the words with a gulp of your drink.

“Name one,” challenged Kaito.

“There was…” You flounder. “There was that girl last summer! She was cute. He liked her.”

Yuki and Kaito exchange a look.

“What was her name?” questions Yuki. “You would remember the name of the last girl your best friend was dating, wouldn’t you?”

You bitterly knock back more of your drink instead of answering.

“[Y/N] doesn’t remember,” explains Kaito, “because Suga-kun hardly gave the girl a second thought. She...kept his bed warm.” Kaito’s eyebrows waggle up and down and Yuki giggles against the rim of her cup. “That was all _she_ was.”

You stare into your drink, dumbfounded.

“You love him too by the way, idiot,” concludes Yuki.

Do you? Sure, he’s sweet and kind, funny and charming, smart and handsome. He smells like cinnamon and a rainy afternoon. He’s the only person you want to see at the end of every day. He’s the only person you can’t imagine life without. You think of that night when he told you he would marry you after graduation. _Surely_ he had been joking.

 _Was he?_ that small voice from earlier questions.

You slam your drink down on the table with enough force that some of it sloshes over the brim. You don’t notice.

“What do I do?”

“What?” gasps Kaito.

“What do you mean?” demands Yuki.

“Don’t make me say it,” you snarl through clenched teeth.

Kaito screeches and Yuki throws her hands up.

“ _Say_ it! Come on!” shouts Yuki.

You bury your face in your hands. “I don’t want to.”

Kaito sidles next to you and drapes an arm over your shoulder. You smell her floral perfume as she teases you. “I know _exactly_ what you’re going to do but I’m not telling until you admit your wise friends have been right this whole time.”

“I think you should do what she says, [Y/N],” giggles Yuki. “We’ve all been waiting for it for a while.”

 _I’m a master of patience, [Y/N]_ , comes a voice in your head that sounds a lot more like Suga’s than yours.

A laugh, positively giddy if not slightly maniacal, bubbles up in your throat. Your hands fall away from your face and your eyes dance, part with alcohol and part with glee.

“I have feelings for Koushi.”

Kaito shrieks again, straight in your ear, as Yuki squeals, “‘She has feelings for Koushi,’ she says! Finally!”

“And you’re going to go tell him!” cries Kaito. “Tonight!”

Your mouth opens and closes once, twice, three times before you can speak. “Tonight? Like right now?”

“ _Yes_ right now,” Yuki deadpans. “Don’t wait any longer!”

But you’re already wrenching the door open.

“I’ll call you guys tomorrow!”

Yuki and Kaito share a laugh while the door slams shut behind you.

You run the whole way, the chill that bothered you before hardly even registering in your mind. Only once you’ve nearly arrived does it occur to you to check that he’s still at home.

He answers his phone on the first ring.

“Hey! What happened to girls’—”

“Koushi?” You gasp into the phone

“[Y/N],” His voice is instantly laced with concern. “What’s wrong? Are you running?”

“I’m running,” you pant. “Are you home right now?”

“Yes! What—?”

“I’m half a block away.”

“Okay, okay.”

You bound up the front steps of his building at the same moment he opens the door. Without breaking stride you fall against him, clutching at his shirt as he folds you into a warm embrace.

“What’s the matter?” he asks quietly, planting a chaste kiss on the top of your head, just as he had in your room earlier.

 _God_ , you think, _I was blind_ and _dumb._

You breathe in that rainy, cinnamony smell and shut your eyes, burying your face into his chest while he swings the door shut. You stand in the entranceway like that as you gather your racing thoughts.

“Do you really have feelings for me? Honest to god?” you question softly, looking up to meet his pretty round eyes.

He blushes delicately and, after a brief flash of surprise passes over his features, smiles that squinty-eyed smile (that! smile!) you are finally realizing you love.

“Of course I do,” he says matter of factly, lifting a hand to brush loose strands of hair from your face. “What have I been telling you this whole time?”

“I’m sorry,” you say, swallowing thickly. You’re just starting to catch your breath after the sprint here. “I was so stupid, stringing you along all this time. I didn’t....realize,” you tell him, deciding that you did in fact know. Even if you didn’t know you know.

_Stupid._

Suga rests his forehead against yours and you raise your hands to cup his face, running your thumbs soothingly over his cheekbones and letting the pad pass over his birthmark.

Your eyes flutter shut as his soft breath ghosts over your mouth. He kisses you once, softly and uncertainly. You can’t stop the thrum of delight that courses from your toes straight up to the crown of your head. Your lips turn up in a smile.

“What are you saying?” questions Suga, and you can’t decide if he’s doubting your or teasing you.

“I think I love you. I think I have this whole time.”

He kisses you again and this time his lips, warm and slightly chapped, linger on yours. You smile into the kiss before he pulls away.

“You think or you know?”

You open your eyes to see him smiling at you playfully.

You grin.

“I know.”

You’re flushed and smiling and happy, standing here in your night-out dress and shoes in the entrance to Suga’s apartment. Being here with his hands on your hips and his lips on your skin is like standing in the warm glow of a setting sun, only the sun sits in your chest and every nerve in your body is burning with its love and desire.

“I love you,” Suga says into your lips. “I love you,” he murmurs against your throat. “I love you,” he whispers in your ear.

“I love you too,” you breathe, your hands roaming from his cheeks to lace together at the back of his neck. “I can’t believe it took me so long to figure it out.”

Suga’s lips were poised over yours, prepared for another kiss, but now he smirks. “Koushi,” he says in a high falsetto, eyes rolled sarcastically up to the ceiling. It takes only a split second for you to realize he’s imitating you. “Koushi, I wish I could find a guy like you to date. Koushi, you’re such a good friend. Any girl would be lucky to be with you, Koushi.”

You roll your eyes and tug at the back of his hair but can’t keep the smile from your face. “I was stupid,” you say, still smiling despite something like melancholy creeping into your voice. “I wasted so much time.”

Suga’s lips find yours and this kiss is deeper than the others. Your mouths slide together and you find your heartrate quickening in response to his more fervent touch. “Maybe so,” he murmurs, allowing only a mere hairsbreadth to separate you in order to speak, “but I’m not going anywhere. We have the rest of forever to make up for it.” He kisses you again. This time, his lips part. You eagerly mimic him and shiver when your tongues slide together. You pout when he pulls away to speak again. “If you’ll have me.”

At first you can only stare. Then your fingers weave into his hair and you press your chest against his. “Now that I know,” you say, pecking his lips again, and again, and once more, “you’re mine.”

Suga exhales sharply and before you know it has hoisted you up so you’re forced to wrap your legs around his waist to support yourself. His lips come crashing over yours with the most urgency yet. You’re so caught up in the hot, wet motions of his mouth on yours that you hardly notice the way he holds you with one arm to tug your shoes from your feet with the other. Your hands are still anchored in his hair and your skin feels warm and flushed as he stumbles not-so-gracefully to his bedroom.

You giggle into his mouth as he fumbles with the door.

“Hush, you,” he murmurs through a smile.

Once he’s sat on the bed between your legs your touches, though just as heated, become sweeter and more deliberate. There’s no hiding the bulge in his pants in this position and while you can hardly stop yourself from rolling your hips against him, your fingers in his hair are soft and gentle. Similarly, his left hand is firm on the small of your back, warm and strong, but his right ghosts along your jaw tenderly. Your kisses are long, slow, and wet.

Soft, breathy sighs and hums fill the room as you relish the feeling of being wrapped up in each other. Your personal sun feels like it might burst clean from your chest. You can’t tell if the lump in your throat promises laughter or tears. You’re not exactly sure how you got here but you’re completely, utterly, and overwhelmingly happy you did.

Suga’s featherlight touch skims from your jaw down your throat and to your back, making your tremble in his lap. You feel his fingers on the skin of your back as he grasps the zipper on your dress.

“Can I?” he whispers, looking at you with hooded eyes.

“Yes,” you sigh, and blush with embarrassment at how close to a moan it is.

Suga chuckles, pleased at the way he never fails to color your cheeks, and slowly guides the zipper down to expose your entire back. Never would you have guessed when he helped you into this dress earlier in the night would he be helping you out of it as well.

Suga releases the zipper and immediately slides his hands beneath the fabric, spreading them wide as if he wants to take in as much of the feeling of your skin as he can. You clutch at his shoulders, loving the feeling of his hands on you, warm and strong and slightly calloused from years of volleyball. You rotate your hips again, hardly noticing the way your skirt has ridden up around them.

The groan that escapes Suga’s throat is nothing short of erotic. His soft caresses on your back bite when he sinks his nails into your skin. He dips his head to kiss and nip at the skin of your throat, then your collarbone, then further down, only stopping when he reaches the neckline of your dress.

“Take this off for me, bear,” he tells you, his voice huskier than you’ve ever heard it. “I want to see more of you.”

Your mind briefly wanders to the time he walked in on you changing in your third year ( _that_ time your nakedness had been accompanied by much shrieking and blushing and apologizing), but the thought is fleeting and then your attention is back on him and his eyes that are dark with want.

You don’t think you’ve ever been so quick to do something he’s asked of you. Without skipping a beat you release his shoulders to grasp the hem of your skirt and pull the dress over your head, tossing it somewhere off to the side without a thought.

Suga’s hands are back on you in a flash, running from the waistband of your panties all the way up your back to the nape of your neck and back down again. He looks like he might devour you as he takes in the sight of you, braless, straddling his lap. The sweet half-smile on his lips indicates to you that this is not just some lust-driven hookup; this is Suga.

“I noticed earlier you weren’t wearing a bra” he says, the words muffled by the place on your shoulder he’s attached his lips to. “That’s very naughty of you, [Y/N].”

“Koushi!” you yelp, half scandalized, half aroused.

You squirm against him, feeling certain he can tell just how hot you’re blushing. He groans again, low enough you can feel it rumble in his chest, as his kisses trail from your shoulder and down your chest. Before he can reach the mounds of your breasts you fist your hands into his t-shirt and wrench it upwards, jostling him enough that he chuckles again.

“Getting impatient, are you?” he asks with a smile. He helps you get his shirt the rest of the way off anyway.

“Don’t tease me, Koushi,” you pout, but your heart isn’t in it. You take in his defined biceps and his sharp collar bones shamelessly.

“Do you mean that?” he chides, pulling you flush against him and placing a soft, moist kiss on your lips.

“No,” you whimper without hesitation.

The feeling of his naked torso against yours further inflames your arousal. He’s warm and smooth and wonderful against you. He smells delicious, like soap and sweat and Suga, and then you’re yet again crashing your lips against his.

His arms wrap around you fully, pulling you even more snugly against him, and in the blink of an eye he’s lifted you and placed you on the bed beneath him.

You gasp, looking up at his familiar smile as he hovers over you, suspended by his forearms.

“Neat trick,” you breathe. He only hums in response, already attending to the sensitive skin of your throat and chest once again.

You moan appreciatively as his he takes your breasts in his hands, latching his mouth around one nipple and swirling the pad of his thumb over the other. They were already pert and alert from your arousal and now his attentions send shockwaves straight to the damp place between your legs.

Your legs seem to wrap around his narrow waist of their own accord, pulling his hips against yours so you can grind against his erection. He releases your nipple with a satisfying _pop_. You’re quick to pull him in for another deep kiss.

It takes only a moment for your hands to wander from Suga’s shoulders down to the waistline of his sweatpants. Much more urgent than he had been about your dress, you hook your thumbs into his pants and briefs and begin wiggling both down his hips.

“So you _are_ getting impatient,” he teases ruthlessly, breaking the kiss so a thin stream of salvia still connects you.

“Only a bit,” you breathe, all but writhing beneath him in response to the desire festering in your gut and still struggling with his pants. He laughs gently before helping you get them the rest of the way off with more elegance than is really fair.

You huff but waste no time wrapping your hand around his fully hardened cock. You take pleasure in the way he hisses at the feel of it, a small vein appearing on his forehead as he grits his teeth. It’s impossible to resist the triumphant smirk that rises to your lips.

“No,” he says, his voice low and serious. Your brows furrow in a question when he grasps your wrist and tugs your hand off of him. “This time,” Suga continues, now with a smile, “is going to be about you. I’m going to show you exactly what you’ve been missing.”

His words send a white-hot spike of lust through you, only deepened by the way he leaves a trail of kisses from your sternum all the way down to your pubic mound. Without asking this time he hastily pulls your panties down and tosses them fuck knows where with your dress. You eagerly (maybe too eagerly) part your legs for him and watch in fascination as he puckers his lips to send a cool jet of air against your sensitive clit. A wanton mewl escapes you and you thread your hand through your own hair just for something to hold onto.

Suga’s smirk is as toying and playful as always as he bends his head to run the flat of his tongue straight up your wet cunt. You moan, loud and lewd, and your hand leaves your hair to cover your mouth and stifle your noises. All too soon, Suga’s lips leave you and you hear his arm slide along the sheets as he reaches up to tug your hand away.

“Don’t do that, bear,” he says, his eyes kind but his voice low and authoritative. “I want to hear you.”

You nod compliantly and instead weave your fingers through his soft hair, not-so-subtly tugging him back down to you. He chuckles, sending soft puffs of breath against your needy folds, and gives you what you want.

If a week ago someone had suggested that your best friend’s face would be between your legs, his tongue alone nearly sending your spiraling towards one of the best orgasms of your young life, you would have balked and blushed and probably laughed in their face. _Now_ , however, you’re wondering how you ever could have lived without this. Your hips buck against him as you shamelessly fuck his face and a toned arm snakes around your waist to pin you down. You’re at Suga’s mercy and more deliriously turned on by it than you ever could have imagined.

As he had asked (or perhaps demanded), your moans and mewls fill the room as his quick, hot tongue brings you closer and closer to the edge. He alternates between flicking it across your clit and running it down your slick folds to dip into your waiting hole. You don’t even realize how harsh your grip on his hair is, so dizzied are you by the pleasure he’s giving you. He doesn’t complain, though. He likes the sharpness of it, he likes how needy you are, so much so that his own hips grind into the bed to offer his painfully hard erection any sort of friction he can get.

“Koushi,” you cry suddenly, “I’m so close.”

His pace quickens and his teeth graze over your clit, making you shudder and shove his face even farther into your cunt. Just when you think you’re there, when you could all but cry at the pleasure, Suga curls a single finger inside you, stroking against your walls deeper and deeper until he hits a spot inside you that sends you careening into a blinding orgasm.

You cry out incoherently, seeing black spots around your vision and feeling your back arch off the mattress. Suga sucks at your clit and pumps his finger in and out of you until you’re babbling nonsense, on the verge of tears, words that sound something like, “Please, no more, a break.”

Slowly, he pulls his finger out of you and you feel the pressure on your stomach ease up. He’s crawling over you again, kissing you with an open mouth that tastes like you, pushing away the hair that sticks to your damp skin, his body sliding against yours just right. You can hardly think because just as soon as you’ve come down from your high your arousal is building again, the taste of you on his tongue and his hard cock on your thigh making your pussy clench around nothing.

“I want you,” he all but growls.

“Take me,” you whine, any semblance of shame long gone.

Your arms are wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him as close to you as you can, and his fingers have tangled through your hair. Suga slides into you slowly and deliberately, moaning low and sensually until he bottoms out. You whimper at the feel of it, seeking his lips with yours. He didn’t even need to guide it in, you fit so perfectly together, as if you were made for each other.

Suga’s heart could just about burst at the sight of you flushed and panting beneath him, eyes glossy with need for him. His thrusts are slow and deep and rhythmic, reaching a delicious place inside you that sends waves of pleasure straight down to your toes. You screw your eyes shut, whimpering his name as if it’s the only word you know.

“Look at me,” he says, firmly but not unkindly.

Your eyes flutter open and search for his. Suga uses his grip on your hair to guide your face up, sealing his mouth over yours in a deep, open mouthed kiss. You moan into it, enjoying the smell of him, the taste of him, the feel of him inside you.

“I want you to come for me,” he tells you, his voice low and husky.

You gasp, surprised by the lascivous words as if he hasn’t been fucking you into his mattress this entire time. But they stir something in you, and the coil that has been tightening in your stomach releases to give way to an earth-shattering pleasure as your second orgasm washes over you. Suga groans with you as you clench around him, your release coating his cock with even more of your juices.

“Again,” he pants, the rhythm of his thrusts changing to something more urgent, “and _look_ at me this time, bear.”

“Again?” you breathe, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, your nails leaving sharp trails of pain across his back.

Suga’s grip in your hair tightens. “Yes,” he says in that husky voice, “I want to feel you come again. I know you can, baby. You’ve been taking my cock so well.”

His praises, the tug on your hair, the sloppy sounds of his thrusts all send you teetering over the edge of another, more powerful orgasm. Suga fucks you through it, his eyes boring into yours.

“Koushi,” you wail. “Koushi, I’m coming.”

He kisses you fervently, not letting up the pace in which he pounds into you, the snap of his hips resulting in the lewd sounds of flesh on flesh that fill the room.

“Say it again,” he orders, breaking the kiss. “Tell me you love me.”  
“I love you,” you tell him dutifully and genuinely. “I love you, Koushi.”

He buries his face in the crook of your neck and you run your hands through his hair as he chases his release, groaning your name into your throat as his orgasm fills you.

Your chests are heaving against each other, Suga is slumped over you and your legs are sliding over his hips to rest on the mattress.

“I love you too,” he says tiredly into the place where your shoulder meets your neck, “so much.”

You smooth his hair back and plant a lingering kiss on his forehead.

With a groan he pulls out of you and collapses on his side. You curl up against his chest and his legs tangle with yours, both of you ignoring for now the way his come is leaking out of you.

“So,” he murmurs, “would you say you’ve sufficiently learned what you’ve been missing out on this whole time?”

“Hm,” you hum, inhaling the sweet, musky smell of your post-sex best-friend-turned-lover. “I’m not sure. You might need to provide another demonstration.”

Suga laughs sweetly and grasps your chin to lift your face and meet your eyes.

“There’s plenty more where that came from, [Y/N].”

“Yeah,” you agree with a slow grin, “and we have the rest of forever for me to figure it out.”


	2. Bokuto Koutarou - Forbidden Fruit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bokuto has never known heartache like that of loving his best friend’s girlfriend. He knows it’s wrong. He knows he should stop himself from indulging in his fantasies of you. But he’s always told himself it’s okay to toe the line so long as he never crosses it. Until the day comes when he forgets about the line altogether.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy belated Halloween! I'm back with a smutty second installment.
> 
> Remember kids: cheating is bad.

Bokuto Koutarou was in love with his best friend’s girlfriend.

Maybe it wasn’t _love_ , per se, but if there was another word for the tightness in his chest when he looked at you, the warmth he felt when you smiled at him, or the way his thoughts never strayed far from your face, your laugh, the curve of your hips, he didn’t know it.

How many times had he kicked himself for introducing you to Akaashi? What would have happened if he had never asked you to meet after practice to walk to your college prep course together? It would have been so easy to simply meet you there. But no, he just had to ask you to meet him at the gym. The gym where you saw the second year setter for the first time. And the way your eyes lit up when they fell on him never seemed to cease plaguing Bokuto’s mind.

Of course, Akaashi never knew Bokuto had a persistent, festering crush on the girl who sat next to him in class. Hell, even Bokuto didn’t know. No, he didn’t figure it out for himself until you started appearing at the gym more and more, always initiating it, always a bit earlier than the time before, lingering in the stands to watch the boys practice. Bokuto let his chest puff out with pride at your presence, mistaking it at first for your interest in _him._ But those hopes were dashed when Coach would blow the whistle to signify the end of practice and you would run up to Akaashi first, praising him on his performance that day. Only once you’d doted on his best friend would you turn to Bokuto with a platonic smile and wave.

Then Akaashi’s name started lighting up your phone during lunch. Then you stopped eating lunch in your classroom altogether, instead making some polite excuse about meeting a “friend” to eat outside with. A friend Bokuto quickly learned was a dark-haired volleyball player from class 2-6.

Bokuto began lying in bed at the end of each day, tossing a ball up towards the ceiling again and again, torturing himself with what-if after what-if. What if he hadn’t been so casual and goofy asking you to walk to your college prep course? What if he had made it sound like a date? What if he had asked you on a _proper_ date that night, flirtatious smiles at Akaashi be damned? What if he had told Akaashi he had a crush on you first?

What if, what if, what if?

Then, much to Bokuto’s dismay, your friend from class 2-6 became your boyfriend, Akaashi.

And being around the two of you was making Bokuto feel, well, lonely.

Because suddenly you were there not just during the school day and during your college prep course but seemingly every other moment of the day as well. You came to practice once your own club activities ended to do homework in the stands, you were at all of his games to cheer Akaashi on, you were around when they went out for something to eat and on the weekends when they met up to play video games. You were now a constant presence in Bokuto’s life and, even though he had no right to, he fell harder for you with each passing day.

Soon enough he was tricking himself into thinking this might not be so bad. Akaashi was happy in that quiet, thoughtful way of his. Shouldn’t that be enough? Wouldn’t that be enough for a _good_ friend? And besides, even if you weren’t his, Bokuto could still cherish your company. 

For example, he liked the way your interactions with Akaashi were all soft and subdued, but it was _Bokuto_ who could coax big, open-mouthed laughs from you with his over-the-top energy and childlike humor. It made his confidence soar, any moodiness vanishing in an instant—only for it to come back in full force when your hand would brush Akaashi’s in a way you both thought was subtle. But Bokuto saw. Every touch. Every time.

It was hard not to sulk.

Still, he liked how just knowing you were in the stands at his games made Bokuto play better, spike harder, and feel stronger—so long as he pretended you were there for him instead of Akaashi. If he failed to keep up that act, however, he would shrink inside himself and start confusing plays, missing Akaashi’s sets, or fumbling serves. For the first time, Akaashi didn’t know how to snap him out of it.

Anyway, Bokuto also liked the way your casual touches felt when you bumped shoulders or patted his arm. In fact, he especially liked those times because they meant you were near enough for him to look at you and the dip of your waist and the light in your hair and the sweetness of your lips.

As the months went by those nights he spent lamenting the loss of you turned into nights spent pining for the feel of you. He knew how wrong it was to lie awake fantasizing about his best friend’s girlfriend. He wasn’t _that_ kind of guy. He would _never_ act on his lustful urges. But it was impossible to keep his thoughts in check. Not when just that day he had seen, for the first time, you and Akaashi kiss. And his insides had burned with jealousy and the only thing that seemed to soothe it was fucking his feelings into his fist.

_Do you do more than kiss? Does Akaashi satisfy you? Do you bare your most intimate parts, does he touch you, does he make you moan his name?_

Bokuto would _kill_ to hear his name on your lips as he brought you to your peak, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy all because of him.

 _No I wouldn’t_ , he tried to convince himself, countless times. _I would never let it go that far._

But he gets hard at the thought alone. Would you ever get out of his head?

Bokuto was constantly swinging between resignation and bitterness. Yet ultimately, he was a bit childish and a bit selfish. He always had been. He needed constant reassurance and he wasn’t getting that when it came to you. Because he was entirely unentitled to it and he _knew_ that. But it drove him mad seeing Akaashi have something he wanted.

Bokuto was used to getting what he wanted, see. For things to play out in a way where he came out on top.

With you, though, he kept landing in second place.

Then, at last, you and Bokuto graduated high school. He got the idea that university would be his chance to forget you. He would find some other girl or two or three who were pretty enough and burn off some sexual steam and stop thinking about you.

_Finally._

Until you announced you would be going to the same university as him.

* * *

“Bokuto-kun!”

The sound of your voice sends a spike of emotion straight to his core. Not one in particular, more like a jumble of pleasure, sadness, longing, and bitterness. Maybe some regret and denial too. Whatever the concoction may be, it’s enough that Bokuto nearly drops the weights he’s lifting on his feet.

When he looks up it’s to see you hopping off a slowing treadmill across the gym. You’re far enough off that once you realize you’ve caught his attention you simply wave, jogging over to speak to him and avoid disturbing the other campus gym-goers. He never knew you to be much of a gym rat in high school, but then again, he’s managed to mostly avoid you since the start of the semester two months ago. Maybe you’ve changed a bit.

“[L/N], hi,” he manages to say once you’re near enough.

 _I’m glad you and [Y/N] will be at uni together,_ Akaashi had said to Bokuto on one of the rare evenings they had gotten together without you.

 _Oh yeah?_ Bokuto had replied, incredulous.

_Yeah. Maybe you’ll be all right without me to watch out for you. You can watch out for each other._

Bokuto sneers at the memory. Something tells him when Akaashi had mentioned “watching out for you” he _hadn’t_ meant to leer at you in your clingy gym clothes and at the fine sheen of sweat covering your exposed skin.

“Everything okay?” you ask, the question genuine and innocent.

Bokuto shakes the thought away and musters a toothy smile.

“Yeah, great. It’s good to see you.”

He sets down the weights and opens his arms for a friendly hug. You don’t hesitate to step into his embrace; neither of you seem to mind the state you’re each in from working out. You linger in his arms for a moment too long.

“What have you been doing these days? You’ve been so hard to get a hold of since we started classes!” you exclaim, grinning up at him after finally stepping a platonic distance away.

 _More like_ who _have I been doing?_ Bokuto thinks, part cheeky, part sardonic. Shortly following move-in, you had invited him by your dorm room to see how you had decorated and to compare class schedules. Being in your room was so stifling for him that he had spent the entire hour or so with hot cheeks and tense shoulders, bolting as soon as was acceptable. He just couldn’t get comfortable sitting on the edge of your bed. I mean, you _sleep_ there, and god knows what else. How was he supposed to tame his wandering thoughts?

After that, he had made it his mission to find someone else. And he did. He found several someones. Bokuto had always known he was in good shape. Volleyball isn’t exactly a walk in the park, at least. Probably not so bad looking either, as far as he can tell. But it was surprisingly easy in a sea of young adult hormones to go out to a party or two (or more) and end each night with a different girl. It was going well enough, that is, until he had moaned _your_ name as another girl got him off.

So he stopped texting you back. Let your calls go to voicemail. Avoided you on campus.

Fortunately, you don’t have any classes together. So maybe if he were to stop spending time with you, he had thought, and catching subtle whiffs of your perfume and watching your lips as you told him about how much you missed Akaashi he might be able to get a good fuck in without wishing the girl under him was you.

It didn’t work. The Incident (as he has come to think of the time he called that perfectly nice girl by the wrong name) was never repeated, however.

Now, with you standing before him, looking and sounding and smelling even more enticing than his memory could recall, he doesn’t know what to say.

“I’ve...been busy. I guess. Trying to adjust to campus life, you know?”

“Yeah,” you eagerly nod in agreement. “It’s different from high school, huh? All this freedom. I keep telling Keiji how much he has to look forward to next year.”

Bokuto’s smile falters. But only slightly. You pretend you don’t see it, filing it away to think about later.

“Anyway,” you go on, trying to catch Bokuto’s eye as he looks anywhere but at you. “I think you’ve had plenty of time to adjust by now, Bokuto-kun. I’m going to hit the showers. Then will you have dinner with me?”

Bokuto’s heart skips a beat. He has to clear his throat before he can speak.

“I’m not sure—”

“Do you have plans?”

“Well, no—”

“All right then. That settles it. Meet me at the cafe at seven? I can introduce you to my suitemates.”

If only he could find it in him to lie to you, to make some excuse. Or rather, if only he was a good liar in the first place. _At least we won’t be alone_ , he thinks, shoving aside a twinge of disappointment at the realization.

“Yeah, okay,” he says. “Seven is good.”

“Good!” you smile, throwing your arms around his neck happily. “I’ve missed you,” you say softly into his chest.

You skip off to the locker rooms before he can come up with a reply. This time, there’s nothing forced about the smile on Bokuto’s face.

* * *

Your suitemates turn out to be great. Not just great, but fun, boisterous, and more than capable of matching Bokuto’s energy. Not to mention, one of them is dating _Bokuto’s_ suitemate, a connection that leaves you all thrilled.

As much as he wants to deny it, Bokuto has a really nice time with you and your friends at dinner that night. And he has just as good of a time at all the dinners, movie nights, parties and study sessions that follow. It’s as if he’s blinked and your friend groups have melded into one. It feels like only moments have passed, but in reality, weeks have crept by and Bokuto can hardly remember the months he spent pushing you away.

The two of you settle into a comfortable rhythm. He makes you laugh, you make him pine.

He’s gotten good at hiding it, at least.

Akaashi is glad you two are spending time together again, a fact that sends a stab of guilt straight through Bokuto’s heart. Not that anything has happened. He would _never_ let anything happen…

And nothing does.

For a while.

Late one Saturday night, Bokuto catches a glimpse of you from across the beer pong table. Through the thick throng of drunk students he almost misses the way you stumble against some guy he’s never seen before. Some guy twice your size, who doesn’t seem to mind at all how plastered you are as he puts his arms around your waist to steady you.

Bokuto too has had more than his fair share of alcohol tonight. But he is at least coherent enough to see that you are on the precipice of blacking out, if you haven’t already. Your friends shout his name, urging him to take his turn aiming for a solo cup with the sticky, wet ping pong ball in his hand, but it falls on deaf ears. Without a second thought he sets his drink down, passes the ball to his teammate and elbows his way to your side.

“[Y/N],” he calls, leaning down to say it into your ear. His lips are very close to your temple.

The guy clinging to you raises his eyebrows, either at Bokuto’s informal use of your given name or the way he’s interfering—or both. Bokuto ignores him, briefly noting his skinny frame and bony elbows. If it comes to it, Bokuto will have no problem getting this guy to leave you _both_ alone.

“[Y/N]!” he says, louder this time, to be sure he’s heard over the pumping bass of the music.

“Bokuto-kun?” you slur, instantly pushing the strange guy off of you.

“Yeah, how about we get out of here?”

“Yeah…” you agree, lurching to the side. Bokuto catches your arm and tugs you against him.

“Can you walk?”

You giggle. “I’m a big girl, Bokuto-kun. I learned how to walk a while ago.”

He doesn’t release his grip on your arm, however, and his instinct is proven correct when you nearly roll your ankle after a mere two steps.

“Okay, okay, just hold onto me,” says Bokuto, much more serious than you’re used to seeing him.

“Yeah,” you sigh, your head lolling to rest against him as you cling to his bicep. “I’ll do that.”

Uncertainly, Bokuto moves to support you by your waist. Your only reaction is to once again giggle drunkenly. With a sigh of relief, Bokuto stamps out a flutter of anxiety over your well-being. He’ll get you home safe.

In this fashion, the two of you stumble from the house and out into the crisp night air.

Now, see, Bokuto’s dorm is much closer than yours, and he’s drunk and you’re a bit heavier than you look, and so before he knows it, Bokuto is toeing open the door to his own dark bedroom. Somewhere along the way he may have resorted to scooping you up bridal style simply for the sake of getting you home in one piece.

(He flat out _refuses_ to acknowledge how pleased he is to hold you so close against his chest).

The door clicks shut behind you and, after some brief hesitation, Bokuto sets you delicately on his bed. He takes great care not to jostle you, as if you’re as fragile as a baby bird. Somewhere between the time your head hits the pillow and Bokuto has lovingly removed your shoes, you pass out.

He sits on the edge of the bed for what feels like ages, staring at you and the way your lips are slightly parted and your chest rises and falls with your breaths. His own chest is tight, so tight it hurts, and he reaches out to stroke your hair before the nagging voice in the back of his head can chime in that he shouldn’t.

You’re fast asleep; at first you don’t stir. His hands strays from your hair to the curve of your jaw. He knows he should stop but he can’t. You’re deliriously beautiful like this, sprawled on his bed with your hair cascading over his pillow. He can’t tear his eyes from your figure or his hand from your skin. It strays further, down your neck and to your shoulder. He watches with fascination as goosebumps rise on the bare skin of your arm in the wake of his touch.

“Hm,” you hum in your sleep. His fingers freeze on your wrist. “Keiji?” you murmur, not once cracking your eyes open.

Bokuto spends that night on the floor, more hurt, dejected, and sexually frustrated than he has any right to be.

You’re still fast asleep the next morning when he wakes up to shower. His head is gently throbbing from the alcohol he consumed the night before and he berates himself for not thinking to force a glass of water into you before you passed out; surely your hangover will be even worse than his.

He spends longer in the shower than usual, choosing to vet some of his... _frustrations_ despite the shame heating his face. But something about the thought of you in his bed on the other side of the door makes the urge impossible to resist.

When he steps out he hastily towels off before wrapping the fabric around his waist and peering at his reflection in the foggy mirror. His hair is damp and flat on his head, the hard planes of his chest are glistening with droplets of water, and a frown is set deeply on his mouth. His eyes are dewey and sad.

 _It’s not fair_ , he thinks, like a spoiled child.

His reflection does nothing but pout at him.

When Bokuto steps back into his room he’s greeted with the sight of you sitting up in his bed. Your hair is mussed and your makeup is smudged. You look beautiful.

“Hey,” you croak.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he grins, feigning lightheartedness. Your lips twitch in response.

He watches your eyes trail from his damp hair to his square shoulders and down to the towel slung low on his hips. Your gaze sets something in him on fire and he quickly turns towards his dresser to pull out some clothes. He can feel your eyes on him, boring a hole into the back of his skull.

“Did you bring me here last night?”

“Uh,” he begins, scared suddenly that he did the wrong thing. Are you mad at him? “Yeah. You don’t remember?”

He turns back around to find you’re still staring at him, something in your eyes he’s never seen there before.

“No,” you say. Your voice is low and strangely serious.

“Well,” Bokuto says, stalling and looking up at the ceiling as if the right words are written there. “We were both pretty drunk. Your dorm is a bit farther away. I could tell you were about to pass out so…” He scratches the side of his head awkwardly. “I brought you here to get you to bed sooner.”

You blink at him and collapse back onto his pillows, a shaky laugh escaping your throat.

“So I just slept,” you say. It’s a statement, not a question, and he realizes you’re talking to yourself more than him. “Okay,” you mumble. “Sorry,” you say louder, looking at Bokuto. “I thought I might have let myself…” you nervously break eye contact as your sentence trails off.

Bokuto’s eyes go wide and he blushes fiercely. _What does this mean? Do you think of him that way? Is there some chance that maybe…?_

“No!” he says, waving a hand and clutching his clothes to his chest. Bokuto is deeply pleased by this scrap of encouragement your vague musings have offered him. Still, he knows he’s expected to stamp out your suspicions. “Never! I would never…” He trails off much the same as you had, unable to finish the lie.

You laugh again, nervously, and swing your legs over the side of the bed. You stand up, swaying a bit on your feet, and collect your shoes and purse from the place Bokuto had left them on the ground.

“I should have known,” you say with a smile that some might call sad. “I’ll, um, I’ll leave. So you can get dressed.”

Bokuto can only nod.

“Thank you,” you say, stepping towards him, rather close. Bokuto’s heart is racing, hammering so hard against his chest he’s sure you must hear it. You put a hand on his bicep and squeeze it affectionately. “For taking care of me last night, Bokuto-kun.”

You’re _so close_ , gazing at him with the softest expression. He could just melt. He wants to take you into his arms, to smooth your hair, to kiss your—

Your phone rings in your purse. He’s snapped from his reverie as you scramble to answer it.

“Keiji!” you exclaim once the phone is at your ear. Bokuto’s heart plummets straight to the floor. “Yeah, last night was fun. I drank too much. No, no, don’t worry, Bokuto helped me out. I crashed at his place.” You smile gently, one that doesn’t reach your eyes, and turn your gaze back to him. “Keiji says thank you too. For watching out for me,” you smile brighter.

Then with a wave you’re gone, chattering pleasantly with his best friend as you go.

Bokuto catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror on his closet door. The only one there to look back is him, the space you had just occupied beside him now empty.

* * *

The second time you’re asleep in Bokuto’s bed is much different than the first.

This time, you and two of your other friends have wound up in his room for a lowkey night of drinking and dicking around. You show up with one of the other girls, dressed comfortably in sweatpants and a t-shirt. At some point in the night, Bokuto pulls off his hoodie and drapes it over the back of his chair. He notices, not long after, the way you shiver, the same way he notices every little thing about you. When you next lock eyes he holds it out to you with a grin. His poor heart takes flight when you accept it with a kind smile. 

“All right,” his suitemate declares late that evening. “Shall we put a movie on? I’m sick of hearing what you lot have to say.”

His statement is met with laughter and good-humored defense. Not long after, some comedy everyone has seen but liked enough to watch again is flickering across the TV.

It doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep. You had settled on the bed like you belonged there and Bokuto, instead of watching the movie, watched you be lulled to sleep by the images on the screen.

“Let’s head out,” your friend says as the credits roll. “I’ll wake [Y/N]-chan.”

“Let her sleep,” says Bokuto before he can stop himself. His cheeks turn a soft shade of pink as eyes shift to him. “I mean, she’s crashed here before. I don’t mind.”

Your friends all nod, eager enough to get to bed themselves that they’re willing to chalk it up to how long you two have known each other.

Then you’re alone.

Bokuto moves to set up a comfortable spot to sleep on the floor. Somehow, though, he winds up perched on the bed instead. Before he knows it, his hand is in your hair just like last time, stroking it gently and affectionately, and he’s ruminating on the way you had looked at him on that morning, after the party. The way you had sighed, _I thought I let myself…_ Let yourself what? He’s dying to know what you meant. He’s dying to know for certain if you ever think of him the way he does you, the way he _has_ been thinking of you for nigh on a year and a half now.

He can’t stop his touch from drifting down your arm, this time clad in his sweatshirt, as he drinks in the sight of you in his bed, in his clothes, curled up like a cat and looking as content as he’s ever seen you.

 _This is wrong,_ says a voice in Bokuto’s head as his big hand moves from your arm to your side, then down as far as your hip. He knows it’s wrong. He’s _always_ known it’s wrong. But he can’t stop. He doesn’t want to stop.

He just lets it rest there for a moment, basking in the feel of you beneath his palm. His eyes can’t choose whether to settle on your face or your figure. His heart is beating wildly with nerves. He’s playing with fire. What if he wakes you?

But he’s not sure he cares anymore. Gingerly, he lies in bed beside you, a good half a foot between you. He leaves the one hand on your hip and, somewhat awkwardly from the way he’s lying, his other finds its way back to your hair.

“Hm,” you hum just like last time, stirring slightly. Bokuto’s hands are off you in a flash. He’s frozen in place like a deer in headlights, dreading what you might say.

You don’t even turn, just shift slightly closer to him and sigh.

“Bokuto-kun?” you murmur. He can sense you’re wide awake now, even though you’re facing away from him.

His heart flutters wildly at the sound of his name. It takes several painful seconds for him to force a response past his lips.

“Yes,” he manages to choke out, hardly above a whisper.

For a moment you’re silent and Bokuto wonders if you can sense the tension wracking his body.

“Don’t stop,” you say finally, your voice quiet but sure. “Please.”

For a second Bokuto can’t move. Then he’s smiling and his wide golden eyes sparkle. His confidence is soaring in response to those three little words escaping your lips. He feels positively giddy as, with some hesitation, each of his hands find their way back to you.

You’re quiet for so long Bokuto wonders if you’ve fallen asleep again. He’s hardly touching you but he’s high on the feel of you. His mind is working a mile a minute, torn between banishing his dirty thoughts or letting this encounter fuel them. He, of course, winds up with the latter. You’re right here, so tantalizingly close and yet somehow so far. The small space between you on the mattress might as well be as wide as the Pacific Ocean. What’s stopping him, really, from crossing that chasm? He can’t seem to remember anymore. Or rather, he doesn’t want to.

Bokuto grows bold.

He lets his hand gently massage your hip, then stroke up your side, pushing the hem of his sweatshirt up with it.

Half an inch of skin is exposed on your waist now. His thumb rests on it and it's warm and Bokuto thinks his entire body might catch fire from this tiny sliver of skin on skin contact. You squirm beneath his touch, enjoying the feel of it, and scoot backwards to bridge the gap that lies between your bodies.

Now, with your back against his chest and your ass pressed against his dick (which is half-hard just from lying beside you), Bokuto is thoroughly convinced his body is, in fact, aflame. You lift your head in a wordless invitation for Bokuto to rest his arm beneath your neck and he does. You nestle against him like you were made to fit there.

And Bokuto can’t stop.

He buries his face in your hair, inhaling your scent, and his hand creeps not only up his sweatshirt but beneath the t-shirt underneath as well, splaying out across your stomach. You squirm again, the motion working your ass against his dick whether deliberately or not he’s unsure. Either way, he’s now fully hard and his face is burning and god won’t you say _anything?_

But you don’t, you just move impossibly closer and Bokuto’s hand moves impossibly higher until he’s cupping your breast through your bra. You’re stubbornly silent but your ass is still working against him and he _knows_ you can feel his erection and you’re not pushing him away, you’re not saying no, so why should he stop? Well, he knows exactly why he should, but, god, he can’t, he won’t, and soon enough his lips have found the skin of your neck and you’re whimpering as he plants hot, open-mouthed kisses there. He moves the cup of your bra away so he can pinch your nipple and your whimpers aren’t letting up, not at all, and Bokuto is completely, utterly intoxicated by you.

He knows he can’t have you. You’re not his to take. He knows you’re bad for him, this is all bad, and he’s doing more harm than good. But an addict needs his fix and you’re here, in his bed and grinding against him, and logic and morals fly out the window as he moves his hand from your breast, back down your stomach and beneath the hem of your sweatpants.

You gasp as he fingers you through your panties, pressing the cloth between your lower lips so it collects the wetness that’s already there. He grins against your neck, obscenely proud at what he’s managed to do to you, and brings his lips up to catch your earlobe between his teeth.

“Tell me you want it,” he whispers, moving your panties aside and pulling you against him in an iron grip. Bokuto knows _he_ wants it, and has from the beginning, but this silence will be the death of him. He needs to hear you _say it_.

You don’t hesitate.

“I want it,” you say clearly. “I want you.”

Bokuto groans and sinks his teeth into your neck at the same moment he slips his finger inside you.

You moan, long and wanton. It does nothing but spur Bokuto on.

He fingers you until you come, hooking two fingers inside you and scissoring them against your walls, stretching you and pleasuring you with each subtle movement. You rake your fingernails along his arm when your orgasm hits you, writhing against him and making him painfully harder. The way you unravel on his fingers, the way he coaxed an orgasm from you with just a few frenzied touches, is nearly enough to send Bokuto to an early end. You’re both panting by the time your moans quiet.

Bokuto freezes in place once your mewls have ceased, terrified you already regret what you’ve let him do to you. But instead of standing up to leave you turn to face him and pull him into a hot, sloppy kiss, hooking your leg over his waist and rolling your hips against his. Your tongues dance, wet and heated, and both your hands grasp at any part of the other they can reach.

Bokuto is drunk on you. He can’t think of anything else. 

With a creek of the mattress you’re straddling him, hastening to strip your top. He sits up to do the same. Then in a great hurry, as if afraid you’ll change your mind, he unclasps your bra to free your breasts. He runs his hands flat over your back and pulls you against him, feeling the way your heart is racing at a pace that nearly matches his own. He begins nipping and sucking at your neck and collarbone, swiping his tongue over your skin to soothe the sting. He’s already leaving marks. He’s forgotten again why he should care.

Bokuto’s actions are turning you riotous with lust. You fist your hands in his hair and pull him into another deep kiss, your tongues swirling against each other.

You break the kiss to laugh, your hips not letting up the way they rut against his.

“This is so wrong,” you say in a voice that makes it sound as if it’s anything but.

“I don’t care,” says Bokuto in a husky voice, giving in completely to his darkest desires. “It feels too good.”

In one motion he has you pinned beneath him, kissing you roughly. You match his passion eagerly, biting at his lip and leaving a trail of red welts down his back with your nails.

“I am going to fuck you,” says Bokuto as he drags your pants and underwear down your legs, “so good,” he grunts as he does the same with his, “that every time Akaashi touches you you’re going to wish it was me.”

Your eyes widen and your lips part at his words. Molten desire comes alive within you. Bokuto’s cock springs free.

It’s impossible not to gape at the sight of it. “It’s too big,” you say, then clamp your mouth shut as if you hadn’t meant the words to slip out.

“Bigger than you’re used to?” Bokuto asks with a prideful smirk. You swallow and nod, his true meaning not lost on you.

_Bigger than Akaashi?_

He sees something then in your eyes that’s not quite fear but maybe...apprehension? And when he reflects on how he must appear looming over you right now—wild-eyed, lust-driven and completely ravenous—it dawns on him that you’ve only ever seen the side of Bokuto more akin to that of a puppy dog. Hell, has he ever even seen _himself_ like this?

He sits back on his haunches thoughtfully and pumps his length a few times, swiping his thumb along his slit to collect the precum, before lining it up with your entrance and dragging the head up and down your folds. You marvel at the way it sits heavily in his hand, your arousal blooming further.

“Do it, Bokuto-kun” you say then, draping your left leg over his shoulder. He kisses your calf sweetly. “Fuck me already.”

Coherent thought abandons him and Bokutos’s head falls back as he sinks into you, sheathing himself completely in your sopping wet cunt. You groan, clutching at the bedsheets at your sides.

“God,” he grunts, “you’re tight.”

Bokuto thinks fleetingly that he should be savoring this moment, fucking you slowly, but he can’t. He’s finally living out his most contemptible fantasies, you’re so eager, so pliable in his hands as he clutches your hip in a bruising grip with one hand and your raised leg with the other. He’s grinning like a madman as he thrusts in and out, trying to be sensitive to the way he must be filling you, stretching you, but struggling to hold back.

Though to his sheer delight, not only do you seem to love it but you’re craving more, bucking your hips against his, your pussy swallowing him, greedily clenching around his cock.

“Fuck,” you whine, eyes wide. “Bokuto, wait. I’m gonna— _fuck_ , I’m gonna make a mess.”

Bokuto absolutely does not wait. In fact he quickens his pace, rolling his hips in a way that helps him reach that spot deep inside you that sends you skyrocketing into blinding pleasure. Your back arches off the bed and he looks down at you in wonder as you squirt all over his length, his thick thighs, and the sheets beneath you.

Now grinning like a cheshire cat, he can’t help the words that escape his lips. 

“Did you just squirt for me, baby? Tell me, can Akaashi make you come like that?”

“No,” you keen, coming down from your high. “Never.”

He lifts you upright like you’re nothing, his cock still inside you, and kisses you fiercely. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the two of you, naked and entangled in each other, and a new fire lights in his belly.

He pulls you off him, grinning impishly at your sounds of protest, and adjusts so he’s sitting at the edge of the bed and your back is to him.

“Sit on my cock, [Y/N].”

You comply without protest, hooking your feet behind his calves and sinking down on his thick cock with a moan. Once he’s buried deep inside you, gliding in effortlessly with the slick wetness of your ejaculation, your head lolls backwards onto his shoulder.

His grip is rough on your hips, strong enough to bruise, and he begins to guide you up and down on his length. His right hand soon migrates up to your neck, settling there in a loose grip just long enough for you to spur your pace ever faster. Then, he takes your slack jaw in his hand and guides your gaze towards the mirror.

“Look in the mirror and tell me who’s fucking you.”

“You are. You’re fucking me.”

“Say my name.”

“ _Koutarou,_ ” you choke out obediently, your face twisted with pleasure.

Bokuto watches you in the mirror, studying you part in awe and part in disbelief. Is this really him? Is this really you? Could he be dreaming?

He’s not. This is real and Bokuto’s grin just might split his face in two. You feel better than he ever dared dream. You look better than he’s ever seen you, getting yourself off on his cock, your spasming cunt devouring every inch of him.

Suddenly you’re not giving him enough. He wrenches you off him, the muscles in his arms and abdomen rippling, and lays you on your back again only to pound into you at a punishing pace.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?” he breathes hotly into your ear.

You can only moan incoherently at his words and he feels you clenching around him. He hisses at the feel of it.

“Say my name,” he demands again, catching your lips in another hungry kiss. “Please, baby, I want to hear my name when you come this time. I want to be sure you know who it is making you feel this good.”

Your eyes screw shut and you say it.

“Koutarou!” you scream, your juices further coating his cock, “Koutarou, please, just like that. I’m—” you gasp as he shifts his hips to reach even deeper inside you. “I’m going to come again.”

You cling to him desperately as you finish violently. Bokuto laughs happily, maniacally, into the hollow of your throat and refuses to let up on his thrusts. 

Didn’t he always know you were made for him? Hasn’t he always believed you two were perfect for each other? Not Akaashi, not those girls he picked up at trashy parties, but you and him. Just like this.

He kisses you hard, your teeth clanking against each other, as if his heated touches could convey all the thoughts swirling in his head. You again fist your hands in his hair, almost as if you understand. Your chests are pressed together and your hips lewdly snap against one another, wet sounds filling the room.

His own orgasm nearly catches him off guard. His name on your lips was more maddeningly arousing than anything he has ever dreamt up on his own. He pulls out at the last second and spills streams of cum onto your stomach, each of you sweating and panting and clutching each other like a lifeline.

Breathing heavily, Bokuto collapses beside you, narrowly avoiding the wet spot you left on the sheets. He runs his hands down his face, the weight of what you just did already settling on his chest like a ton of bricks. He swallows back the lump of guilt that rises in his throat.

The air in the room is thick and hot. Outside, a group of students chatter and laugh as they pass by. Bokuto considers cracking the window to let in some cool night air. Or just to break the tension. But he can’t move, not even to grab you something to clean up with. He feels as if his limbs are too heavy to even lift from the bed.

“I’m sorry, Kou,” you say quietly from beside him, still panting. Your use of the sweet nickname almost distracts him from what you’re trying to say. “That was probably the wrong way to go about this.”

Bokuto turns to look at you and your gaze shifts from the ceiling to meet his.

“What?” is all he can manage.

The way you look beside him, thoroughly fucked out, your skin glistening with his cum, is nearly enough for him to forget what was so wrong about what he just did.

Almost.

“I, um,” you begin, your voice small, “I should have ended things with Keiji by now.”

Bokuto blinks.

“He’ll be hurt,” you continue softly, your eyes shining, “but I’m going to tell him I want to be with you. I hope he’ll place the blame on me that way. The last thing I want is to come between you two.”

He should be ashamed, but all he really hears are those few, magical words as they pass your lips.

_I want to be with you._

He smiles at you warmly, a hummingbird taking flight in his ribcage when you smile back.

Bokuto _knows_ it’s wrong. But, as it turns out, he’s not the kind of guy who cares.


	3. Terushima Yuuji - Not So Great Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For years, Terushima Yuuji has been a stain on your otherwise pleasant memories of high school. Egotistical and disrespectful, he never failed to set your teeth on edge with his unwelcome advances. As adults, he makes an unexpected appearance back in your life. You quickly learn that your not so great expectations of your high school nemesis couldn’t be more off-base.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fell for Terushima the moment I laid eyes on him, but was always kind of disappointed in myself because of that unsavory scene with Kiyoko. So I wrote him a little redemption arc so I can simp guilt-free :]
> 
> Trigger Warning: This update includes content that could be triggering for some readers, including depictions of sexual harassment and attempted date rape. Beware mentions of catcalling, uninvited touching (ass grabbing), roofies and discussion of rape. There is NO sexual violence and NO nonconsensual sex.

“Hana-chan!” you call from outside your club room.

Your childhood friend, Misaki Hana, turns at the sound of her name. Her brown bob bounces with the movement and a grin breaks out on her pretty features when she sees you. You trot down the hall to join her as she waves, just outside the door to the gymnasium in which the Johzenji High boys’ volleyball club practices.

“Hey,” you breathe when you reach her. “How was practice?”

“Same old, same old,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “Never a dull moment with the party team.”

You snort, fully aware of the high-energy boys’ antics as much from firsthand experience as from Hana’s colorful tales.

“At least nothing surprises you anymore,” you say sardonically, tugging at the sleeve of Hana’s yellow tracksuit. “Now let’s hurry up and get out of here before—”

“Hey, sweetheart,” comes a voice from behind you, stopping you in your tracks.

Hana’s eyes dart nervously from you to the boy quickly closing in. Your grip on her jacket tightens involuntarily and your eyes narrow to slits. You inhale sharply through your nose before turning around.

“Terushima,” you say in lieu of a greeting, your mouth set in a frown. “How many times do I have to tell you my name is not ‘sweetheart?’”

His cheeky smirk only widens at your obvious distaste. “Really? ‘Cause I was just thinking how _sweet_ it is that you came to meet me after practice.”

Your frown deepens as he steps towards you, stopping mere inches away from your face and successfully invading your personal space. You simply meet his almond-colored eyes and glare.

“Terushima, come on,” Hana says feebly from your side. “Leave her alone.”

A couple of the other players have trickled from the gym by now and joined Hana to see how your altercation with their captain plays out. Based on previous instances, they’re in for something of a show.

“She doesn’t mind, do you, [Y/N]?” Terushima replies with much more confidence than is really warranted.

“Oh, you couldn’t be more wrong about that,” you say, your voice thick with sarcasm. “I mind very much.”

“Aw, don’t be coy with me,” he chastises playfully.

His eyes gleam as he takes another step, this time forcing you backwards for fear of being stepped on. Again he does it, and again, and once more until you feel the wall at your back. It occurs to you that spitting in his face might be effective in getting him to leave you alone, but decide it probably wouldn’t be worth the dramatics that would ensue.

“Coyness is the furthest thing from my mind,” you say loud enough for your audience to hear. “You’re disgusting.”

“Am I?” he asks, and you marvel at the way his grin never falters. “I’m wounded, sweetheart. You really think that of me?”  
Your gaze shifts to the side as you plot your escape. Terushima, however, catches it and responds by raising his arms to rest one on either side of your head, caging you in.

At this proximity, you can see the light catch on his silver tongue piercing when he speaks. You resist the urge to break eye contact again in order to spot his athletic build and bleached blond hair, which somehow always seems to lie perfectly in place. You notice that his breath is warm and sweet, how a soft, masculine scent clings to him, and think not for the first time what a shame it is that such an attractive guy has such a repulsive personality.

“You want to know what I think?” you question, forcing a smile to your lips and batting your eyelashes. His smirk grows ever wider and he nods, enjoying the game of cat and mouse. “Well, come a little closer, I want to tell you something.”

Grinning wickedly, he leans down so you can bring your mouth right up to the shell of his ear.

“I think that if you don’t get off of me this instant I am going to knee you in the balls so hard that you can never have children.” Your words are sickly sweet, dripping with honey, and when he pulls away to scowl at you he’s met with the prettiest, most hollow smile he’s ever seen grace your lips.

“I’ll change your mind one of these days,” he grumbles, pushing himself from the wall and stepping back.

“Good luck!” you cry, this time _your_ smirk widening. “May I suggest a more respectful approach?”

He waves a hand dismissively as he walks off, one of the guys slapping him on the back consolingly, as if that might make up for the guffaws at his expense.

“Man,” says Hana. You start slightly, so caught up in your displeasure you had nearly forgotten she was there. “I can’t believe he won’t give it a rest already. You sure you don’t want me to talk to him?” She offers you a hesitant smile. “I am his manager, you know.”

You sigh, unable to find it in you to return her smile. “I don’t know. I appreciate it, but I don’t want to bring you into this and make things awkward for you around the team. Not to mention I’ll have to deal with him on my own once you graduate.”

Hana’s only response is to rest a hand on your shoulder, a sympathetic look gracing her features.

“Maybe,” you continue, “you can tell me how you get him to listen to you. I’ve only ever gotten anywhere with threats.”

“Me too.”

You exchange a disgruntled look before dissolving into giggles.

* * *

Several weeks later, you find yourself at the Sendai City Gymnasium, forcing your way through the crowds that turned out for the Miyagi’s Interhigh Preliminaries. Your goal is to reach Hana following her team’s latest match.

After escaping the stands and following a set of stairs down to court-level, it’s easy to spot the cluster of sunny yellow uniforms. Hana sees you and waves you over.

“Congrats!” you say, enveloping her in a hug. You pull away to see her beaming happily. “That was an exciting match.”

“Didn’t they play great?” she asks excitedly. “I can’t believe it; even if we can’t beat Aoba Johsai in the next match we’ll _still_ finish in the top four!”

“Hell yeah!” you exclaim, raising your hands to give her a double high five.

Suddenly, something like concern darkens Hana’s expression. Before you can ask what’s wrong, a pair of strong arms encircle your waist. You feel a scowl creep onto your features unbidden as a familiar masculine musk reaches your nose.

“Did you really come to support me, baby?” Terushima murmurs in your ear.

Your face turns bright red and your muscles immediately tense.

“Terushima,” Hana threatens despondently, “get off her.”

Something in the look on her face must tune him into the gravity of her words because only a beat passes before his hands slither from your waist.

“Feeling cocky after your win, are we?” you throw over your shoulder, not even looking at his face.

Teeth clenching, you search Hana’s eyes for comfort. It’s there, but offers little solace when Terushima’s hand gropes your backside, going so far as to creep under your skirt.

You gasp and whirl around, barely registering the shocked (and some awed) faces of his teammates. Your eyes settle on Terushima’s smug expression before you bring the heel of your hand up to his nose with as much force as you can muster. The impact results in a satisfying crunch.

Your heart is racing as he staggers backwards and looks at you with wide-eyed disbelief. Blood is already trickling from his nose and his teammates have erupted into chatter.

“[Y/N], oh my God,” says Hana meekly.

“Holy _shit_ ,” spits Terushima. “You might have broken my nose.”

“I hope so!” you snarl, stamping your foot childishly. “Maybe you’ll finally learn not to be so _revolting_ — _”_

“Hey!” you hear from down the corridor. “What the hell is going on over here?”

You, Hana, Terushima, and the team of onlookers all turn to see the volleyball coach storming towards you.

“Coach!” Hana squeaks. “There was a misunderstanding—”

“A misunderstanding?” he demands, looking between you and the captain of his team. “Did you just hit him?”

“Yes, but—”

“Terushima,” he barks, “did you do something to provoke her?”

“I mean, maybe—”

“Enough,” the coach says shortly, turning back to you. “You, are you a student at Johzenji?”

You swallow and nod.

“All right.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a steadying breath. “All right,” he repeats, more calmly. “I don’t know what just happened, but you two can explain it to the vice principal tomorrow, you hear me?”

“Yes, coach,” Terushima grumbles nasally, pinching his nose shut to stop the bleeding.

“Hana-san, take Terushima to the infirmary. Everyone else, go wait on the bus.”

The coach looks at you one last time from behind his glasses and simply shakes his head. You sigh with relief—for now. Moments later, your blood resumes its boiling over the mess Terushima has gotten you into. Hana shoots you a pitying glance as she leads him away, which you respond to with a look that spells out your indignation, clear as day.

Your thoughts are rife with vehemence as you storm towards the exit.

_Loathsome, egotistical, disrespectful pig._

* * *

A mere twenty-four hours later you find yourself seated across from the vice principal, right beside the subject of your resentment.

The night before, you had paced your childhood bedroom for hours, mulling over the case you would make in your own defense as your flowery pink wallpaper boxed you in. That is, from the places it peeked out from between countless posters of your favorite bands. It comforted you somewhat to imagine their carefully posed photographs encouraging you.

“Vice Principal,” you begin now, recalling the speech you had settled on after much consideration, “what happened at the prelims yesterday was the result of months of torment at the hands of Terushima.”

“ _T_ _orment_?” balks Terushima. “Don’t exagg—”

“Terushima-kun, you’ll have your chance to speak,” the balding man silences him. You struggle not to look smug, wrestling your features into something appropriately stern and composed. Mature, you hope.

“As I was saying,” you go on, ignoring the captain’s obnoxious eye roll, “he’s been tormenting me for quite a while. Catcalls, unwanted touching, persistently coming onto me. I can’t even say how many times I’ve asked him to stop. I tried again and again to be nice—”

“So why did you stop?”

“Sorry?” you ask, thrown completely off guard by the vice principal’s question.

“Why stop asking nicely? You’re not children anymore. You couldn’t control yourself? Stop yourself from growing violent in response to his flirtations?”

You balk. No matter how many times you rehearsed this scenario in your bedroom, the vice principal (or Jimin in your poster of BTS, who was playing the role of your school’s faculty member for you), didn’t _once_ question why you weren’t persistently polite to Terushima.

“Because his _advances,_ ” you plow on, pointedly using a less innocent word than _flirtations,_ “were not nice at all, sir. When being nice didn’t work I felt it necessary to defend myself using less sensitive means.”

“All right then, settle down.” You hadn’t felt you’d gotten particularly worked up at all, but you take a deep breath and smooth your skirt anyway, fighting to revive your wilting self-confidence. “Why did you punch Terushima-kun in the face?”

You can’t stop yourself from giving your classmate a sidelong glance, reminding yourself that his black eyes and bandaged nose were your doing. It gives you the reassurance to continue as you had rehearsed.

“I hit Terushima yesterday because he crossed a line. After his game, I was speaking with my close friend, Misaki Hana, who manages the team, when Terushima came up behind me and touched me inappropriately. It made me uncomfortable and—”

“Thank you, [L/N]. Terushima-kun, is that what happened?”

Terushima sits up a bit straighter and props an elbow up on the desk in front of you. With a casual grin, he begins.

“Vice Principal, first I would like to thank you again for expressing your disappointment over missing yesterday’s matches. I’m excited to see you back at the playoffs.”

Your mouth nearly falls open in shock over his blatant ass kissing. The vice principal, however, eats it up and smiles almost bashfully, his loosening jowls swaying slightly.

“Anyway, after the match, the guys and I were over the moon, even Misaki-senpai was happy for once. Then this one comes along,” he says, shaking his head and jabbing a thumb your way. This time, your mouth _does_ fall open, your brows furrowing with incredulity. “I was just excited to see her, you know? I like having her around. You know that, right, [Y/N]?” Terushima questions with feigned innocence. 

He turns your way, his face every inch the golden boy, the jock who, yeah, gets in a bit of trouble, but has such unmistakable charm there can’t be any harm in letting it slide, right?

At least, that’s what you see written all over the vice principal’s face when you turn to him for help.

“Maybe,” Terushima is saying now, unphased by your silence, “I wouldn’t have gotten so carried away if you gave me more opportunities to see you.”

“Are you _out of your mind_?” you demand, completely losing your cool.

“[L/N], see, where is that attitude getting you? It landed you here in my office, that’s where it got you.”

You clamp your mouth shut and seethe.

“Would it be so bad to just go out with him once or twice?”

You stare at him across the desk. He stares back. At your side, Terushima watches with a smirk, delighted at this turn of events.

“He doesn’t want to _take me on a date,_ sir,” you reply, your voice much smaller than it usually is. Terushima’s grin falters slightly. “His behavior is threatening and predatory. Not to mention dehumanizing. I just told you that he’s been harassing me for months. What I did was self defense.”

The vice principal sighs and shakes his head. “He wasn’t hurting you, was he? What _you_ did, on the contrary, was violent and dangerous.” He crosses his arms and continues shaking his head, as if your actions are weighing heavy on his soul. “You’ll be suspended for the rest of the week and barred from club activities the rest of the month.”

You feel your mouth opening and closing like a fish, but no words come out. Terushima, even, looks like he can’t believe what he just heard.

“And what about _his_ punishment?” you finally sputter.

“I think a broken nose is punishment enough.”

 _No way_ , you think, a lump rising in your throat. You feel defeated, helpless, and completely let down by the very authority you were taught to trust. This was not how this was supposed to go. Jimin, last night, was sympathetic and forgiving. Terushima (played in your fantasy by a young Adam Levine in the poster on your closet door), had been suspended for a month, perhaps even expelled, on grounds of sexual harassment. Your spotless record was maintained.

But your mock meeting in your bedroom was exactly that—a fantasy. A childish one, it’s beginning to seem. Your tough exterior cracks then, tears pricking the backs of your eyes and threatening to fall. Before your lip can begin trembling, you storm from the office, your vision blurred as you start to cry.

Through the betrayed, angry tears you miss the way something like regret has crept into Terushima’s eyes.

* * *

“So, I mean, can you believe that? I’m in line for the teller for an _hour_ and this chick thinks she can be helped sooner just because…”

Your date’s story melds into the background noise as you swirl the final dregs of your cocktail in its glass. You’ve been sitting at this crowded, loud, stuffy bar with the guy for nearly as long as he was waiting in line at the bank last week and have hardly gotten two words in edgewise. Not only have his stories and “witty” anecdotes been stale and boring, but the way he talks makes it seem like he expects you to find him just as fascinating as he clearly finds himself.

“Totally ridiculous. Some people are so nervy—”

“I _know_ ,” he bulldozes over whatever the rest of your sentence was going to be.

You narrowly avoid rolling your eyes and knock back the rest of your drink instead.

“Hey, how about another?” he offers.

 _Polite in that regard, at least,_ you think. _Or just trying to get my drunk._

You resist the urge to wrinkle your nose.

“Actually, thanks, but I had a long day at the lab. Think I might just call it a night.”

“The lab? What lab?”

You blink, wondering if you should give him the benefit of the doubt and ask if he’s joking. Your occupation as a lab assistant for a research team based in Sendai was not only listed on your stupid dating profile, but it was also one of the first things your date asked you when you matched (because apparently he can’t read. If he could, he would have read it in your profile).

However, nothing in his vacant stare indicates that he has any recollection of this piece of information. So you sigh and indulge him, yet again.

“I’m a lab assistant. For a research team.”

“Oh, right, of course. Sorry, sweetheart. I remember now.”

 _Sweetheart._ You cringe at the nickname.

“All good. But yeah, I’m tired.”

His eyes turn downcast over the rim of his pint glass, the foamy remnants of the beer’s head really all that’s left. Suddenly, you feel a tad bit bad for bailing so soon.

“Listen, no pressure, but I’m having a really nice time with you, [L/N]-san. I would love it if you let me buy you one more.”

You sigh through your nose and nod once. “Fine. Sure, one more can’t hurt. I’ll order for myself. I’m just going to run to the restroom first.”

He smiles a big, golden-retriever grin and you feel a bit more at ease. You saw _something_ in him when you agreed to this date, didn’t you? What’s one more drink on him?

This thought consoles you during your trip to the bathroom but does little when you return to your bar stool and find your drink already replenished.

“Oh,” you say with a frown. “I told you I would order for myself.”

“Yeah, I know,” your date says with that big, charming grin. “But I remembered your order. Thought you might appreciate that you don’t have to wait.”

“Yeah, I guess,” you say, studying the drink. “That was thoughtful.”

You put your hand around the glass, the condensation slick under your fingers. _Am I really going to trust this guy with my drink?_ you question, hoping to find the answer spelled out at the bottom of the cocktail. _Does he have it in him to pull something like that?_

“Hey, put that down.”

You look up at the same time your date does to find someone has sidled through the crowd to situate himself between you and your date’s seats. You blink once. Then you blink again. You feel the urge to rub your eyes with your fists, like in a cartoon, but you simply stare.

“ _T_ _erushima_?” you demand. “What the hell?”

How many years has it been since you saw him? Well, you reason, since your high school graduation. So five years, almost to the day. Little about him has changed. His style is a bit more polished, sure, but he’s still got those ear piercings and bleached blond hair (your mind wanders briefly to the tongue ring. Yep, that’s still there too). His jaw is more defined and his shoulders are broader. His physique, overall, is more mature. But there’s no doubt about it—the guy standing before you in this overcrowded city bar is Terushima Yuuji.

“Nice to see you, [L/N],” he says, almost bashfully. There’s no traces of humor or excitement in his expression, however, and he takes it upon himself to pull your drink from your hand and set it down firmly on the sticky bartop.

“Did you put something in her drink?” he demands of your date, none of the easy playfulness about him like in your memories from high school.

“[L/N], do you know him?” your date questions, ignoring Terushima completely.

Your blood has suddenly run cold.

“Answer him,” you say evenly, your tone taking on some edge.

Your date licks his lips and looks up at Terushima, whose face is set dangerously. Your stomach flip flops with nerves, trepidation, and something else.

“I don’t know who you think you are, pal, coming over here—”

“It’s a simple question, _pal_ ,” says Terushima, crossing his arms.

You feel frozen in your seat, eyes darting between the two of them like you’re watching a Johzenji volleyball match.

“It’s really none of your business what—”

“ _Yes,_ ” growls Terushima, “or _no_?”

Your mouth is dry. You swallow thickly and put a hand on Terushima’s arm. He turns to you and rearranges his face into something softer upon realizing how unsettled you are.

“It’s fine,” you choke out, grabbing your purse and standing up. “It’s fine,” you repeat, more sternly. “I’m going home.”

“Aw, come on, sweetheart—”

Your eyes harden and your jaw sets. You open your mouth to retaliate ( _I’m not your sweetheart, asshole)_ when Terushima rounds on your date and punches him in the nose.

You start, your hand flying up to cover your mouth. Your date reels backwards, barely catching himself before face planting on the floor. His nose is _definitely_ broken—blood gushes over his mouth and drips onto his shirt.

“You!” shouts the bartender, dropping whatever he was doing. “None of that here, you hear me? Get the hell out before I call the cops!”

Terushima swings around and grabs you by the arms. “Are you okay?”

You look at him, shaking your head in sheer disbelief. In truth, you’re completely stunned. You couldn’t answer honestly if you tried.

“We gotta get out of here,” you breathe.

You wonder if he can even hear you over the music. Whether he did or not, he caught your meaning enough to nod and release your arms. He makes his way towards the exit and you follow closely behind.

As soon as the door swings shut Terushima stops short. You run into his back and stumble against him. When he turns, you see his expression teetering between concern, disbelief and something dark. Something murderous.

“You punched him in the face,” you say. It’s the first thing that comes to mind.

“He deserved it,” Terushima tells you, a smirk slowly rising to his lips. “I learned from the best.”

An image of Terushima, seventeen years old and clutching a bloody, broken nose at the gymnasium not far from where you are right now, flashes vividly across your mind’s eye. You can’t decide if you want to laugh or cry.

“You saw him put something in my drink?” you question instead, forcing your emotions down for the time being.

“I thought I did, at least,” he says with a shrug. “He all but confirmed it, acting that dodgy when we confronted him.”

You nod, bobbing your head up and down again and again in an attempt to calm your racing thoughts.

“You should go,” you say suddenly. His brows knit together. “I don’t want him seeing us out here and starting trouble.”

Now Terushima nods, a look of understanding settling on his features. “Are you going to be okay? Do you live near here?”

You shake your head, closing your eyes and picturing your forty minute commute. _What a waste of fucking time_ , you think darkly.

“I need to get the train,” you say. You’re standing close enough that you can smell whatever musk clings to Terushima. That too, has changed since high school, but only subtly.

“Will you be alright on your own? Can I...can I walk you to the station?”

You avert your eyes, your gaze settling instead on your hands at your sides. They’re cold and trembling. You clasp them together in front of you, just for something to hold onto.

Terushima notices the tremble in your hands and the way your shoulders, too, are gently shaking. He sees you bite your lip and he watches your eyes dart towards the door to the bar behind you.

“I don’t want you to have to go out of your way for me,” you tell him honestly. “I’ve already ruined your night…”

“Ruined my night?” he asks, smirking again. “I’ve hardly had that much excitement since we were at Johzenji. I should be thanking you.”

You sense the upturn of his voice that’s surely meant to comfort you and a wave of appreciation washes through your chest. He starts leading you towards the station and you’re quick to follow.

 _It’s me who should be thanking you,_ you know you should say, but the words stick in your throat. You glance up at him anxiously, your hands still clasped before you. You feel wretched. You're on your guard, there’s a nervous pit in your gut, and you feel the need to constantly glance over your shoulder.

 _You could have been date raped_.

The thought dances through your mind on a loop, taunting you, laughing at you.

_Stupid girl. You never trust a stranger with your drink._

_You could have been date raped._

_Raped._

You shake your head and choke back a sob.

Beside you, Terushima can sense your unease. He knows as well as you do that you made a narrow escape tonight.

You hardly speak the rest of the short walk to the train station. You’re at war with yourself. You know, rationally, that you made a near fatal mistake and it’s only thanks to Terushima that you’re here now, safely making your way home, instead of drugged and violated. But, admitting this to yourself has done nothing to stamp down the memories of the Terushima you knew in high school.

_There’s my favorite girl, come to meet me after practice._

_Why don’t you come over tonight, [Y/N]? We could study...or not._

_Came to see my match, did you, sweetheart?_

_Sweetheart._

So you don’t speak. You simply focus on taking one shallow breath after the other.

At the entrance to the station you stop, standing in the bright lights and listening to the sound of a train arriving on its track.

“I appreciate—”

“You gonna be—?”

You start speaking at the same time. You clamp your mouth shut as Terushima chuckles nervously. Both of you search for anything to look at besides each other. Standing outside the train station, this far from the bar, you finally feel like you can unclench your hands. Your shoulders slightly relax.

“Will you be able to get home from here? I can take you the rest of the way if it would make you more comfortable.”

 _Sweetheart_.

He doesn’t say it. Your mind fabricates the word. But it’s his voice you hear.

You shake your head.

“I’ll be fine,” you say, finally meeting his eye. “It’s a bit of a trip. I couldn’t put you out like that.”

He looks like he wants to argue further, but something in your face discourages him.

“Okay,” is his only response. 

You watch as he seems to search for the right thing to do with his hands. A hug? A pat on the back? A handshake?

He shoves them into his pockets and nods.

“Have a good night, Terushima,” you say, mustering up a small smile for him. The only gratitude you manage to offer.

“You too, [L/N].” He meets your eye. “It was nice to see you. You look good.”

Your lips part in surprise. He doesn’t say it like he used to. Leering, insinuous, predatory. Tonight, he makes the three words sound sincere. Genuine. A simple, weighted compliment.

You watch silently as Terushima turns to leave, back the way you came.

* * *

You wish you could say the days following the incident are uneventful. Unfortunately, this isn’t the case.

The first thing you do upon getting home that night is plop face down into bed, scream into your pillow, then roll over and delete that _stupid_ dating app from your phone.

Then you stand up, strip off the stupid skirt and stupid top you picked out for your stupid date and pull on your fluffy bathrobe.

“How was it?” your roommate calls from the living room, clearly only half interested.

You met in a Facebook group about eight months ago for people who needed roommates in the city. She’s nice enough, but you never really clicked in a way that makes you think of her as a friend. She keeps the place clean, at least.

“Pretty shit,” you grumble, not stopping your trek to the bathroom. “Men ain’t shit.”

“Amen, sister.”

You slam the door, turn the shower up as hot as it will go and cry.

It’s therapeutic to let out the emotions you had bottled up for the trip home and you feel significantly lighter as you fall back into bed to sleep. But sleep is evasive tonight and, tossing and turning, you find your thoughts linger less on your brush with disaster and more on your unlikely hero, Terushima Yuuji.

 _I learned from the best_ , he had told you, your shitty date’s blood drying on his knuckles. Now, hours later, you finally allow yourself to laugh. It bubbles in your chest and passes through your lips before you can stop it. Whatever cosmic alignment took place tonight made it so Terushima punched a creep in the face for the same reason you once punched Terushima in _his_ face more than six years ago.

Come to think of it, your bout of violence that day seemed to do the trick. After months of harassment at the hands of the overconfident volleyball captain, he finally laid off on the catcalling and teasing. In fact, he seemed hesitant to speak to you at all throughout the course of your third year. You always assumed it was out of boredom. What more could he get out of you? A broken nose and a meeting with the vice principal would be hard to top.

However, for the very first time, you start to wonder if it wasn’t boredom after all. Maybe it was regret.

The next morning, after an uneasy sleep, you rush to the lab, Terushima and the previous night’s events still at the forefront of your mind. In fact, his cheeky smile, enticing tongue piercing and heroic deed cloud your thoughts to the point that you drop a tray of microscope slides all over the floor. Half of them shatter, meaning it’s thanks to you that half of the day’s samples face untimely, microscopic deaths.

The day after the lab disaster is mercifully your day off. You look forward to the chance to lick your wounds (the only thing actually hurt was your pride. But still) and sleep in. You’re woken up, however, by the sweet symphony of the fire alarm right on time to see the first pink rays of sunlight.

Your roommate, hurrying out of the house for her early shift at the neighborhood diner, had seemingly left her curling iron switched on and resting on a pile of her thesis notes. The damage is minimal, but before you can throw open all the windows and clear the smoke out with your electric fan, the fire department arrives. So, clad once again in your fluffy bathrobe, you greet the firefighters at the door and explain that your roommate left her curling iron on.

They insist on an inspection and, when you notice one of them has bleached blond hair, get so caught up yet _again_ in thoughts of Terushima that you don’t even hear their calls of, “All clear, miss. Miss? Miss, are you all right?”

They demand you be checked for oxygen deprivation and minutes later an ambulance joins the parade of fire trucks outside and you’re being shepherded into the back for your exam.

“I’m fine. Really, I’m fine,” you insist again and again.

They ignore you, however, and the tests confirm that you are, as you tried telling them, perfectly fine. “Be careful next time, space cadet,” one of the EMTs tells you teasingly as you schlepp back into the house in your robe.

And you decide, finally, that enough is enough.

“[Y/N]-chan!” Hana squeaks through the phone. “God, it’s so good to hear from you. My mom was just asking about you the other day.”

You let out a distracted, breathy laugh. “Oh, how sweet,” you say. “I hope she and the rest of your family are well.”

“They’re great,” Hana chatters. “She and your mom are still doing their daily walks around the neighborhood.”

“Of course,” you smile, “an age old tradition for them. Remember the summer they tried to drag us along?”

“Ugh,” groans Hana dramatically. “It should be illegal to pace the neighborhood in summer heat.”

You giggle. “Agreed.”

“So,” says Hana. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Hana,” you say, feigning hurt. “Can’t I call my closest friend out of the blue just to hear her voice?”

Shortly after Hana finished university in Tokyo, the year before you did, she moved to the city permanently for work. You held out hope, secretly, that you might find a job to fill your gap year before graduate school that was local to your oldest friend. But it wasn’t in the cards for you and you wound up in the city closer to home, albeit the one with far fewer familiar faces.  
“You certainly can,” Hana says around a mouthful of something crunchy, “but I know that’s not it.”

You huff. “You know me too well.”

“Yeah, yeah. Is it boy stuff?”

“If you can read my mind why do I even have to tell you?”

“Ha!” she exclaims. “It’s bad news, isn’t it?”

“Well, sort of…”

She crunches patiently while you collect your thoughts.

“Are you still in touch with Terushima?”

The crunches stop.

“Terushima? Terushima _Yuuji,_ from Johzenji?”

“The one and only.”

“That is so weird, [Y/N]. He just texted me the other day asking for you.”

“Is that so?” you ask, fighting to sound unsurprised. “What did he say?”

“Nothing, really. It was strange. Just asked if we’re still close and if I know how you’re doing lately.”

Your heart skips a beat. _Could he have been checking up on me?_

“I kind of ran into him the other night.”

“Oh no,” she says quickly. “Did he do something—?”  
“No!” you say quickly. “No, actually. More like...the opposite?” You don’t mean for it to sound like a question, but your voice turns up at the end to make it so.

“So,” Hana says, her snack abandoned as the hopeless gossip in her rears its ugly head, “he was the very image of a perfect gentleman? He atoned for all his past sins in one act of grandeur and swept you off your feet?”

“That...is surprisingly closer to the truth than I would like to admit.”

“Oh my _God_!” Hana squeals.

You tell her the whole story from start (“[Y/N], you don’t trust men you meet on the _internet_ ! We learned that when we were, like, ten years old!”) to finish (“holy _shit_ , [Y/N]. He really did sweep you off your feet, didn’t he?).

“Listen, Hana. Listen good.”

You can all but hear her eyes roll through the phone, but she stays quiet.

“Don’t make a big deal out of this. I still don’t really know how I feel about all of it.”

“Okay, okay,” she says, the words impatient but her tone compassionate. “I understand. This is kind of crazy.”

“Yeah. It is.” You take a deep breath. “Gimme his number, would you?”

She shrieks loudly. You pull the phone away from your ear and let her get it out of her system.

“Done?” you demand a moment later.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m cool. Not making a big deal out of this.”

“Good. Just send me his contact.” You pause. “Please.”

Your friend giggles and seconds later your phone vibrates with a new text. You put the call on speaker and open the message. _Terushima Yuuji_ , it reads, followed by his number. The message came in with the contact photo Hana has saved for him, an old one from high school. He really has matured, you realize.

 _You look good_.

Your finger hovers over the screen for a split second while you search for the option you need.

_Create new contact._

You press the button. Your fate is sealed.

* * *

It takes until the following weekend for you to find the courage to call Terushima’s number. Well, not find it, per se—you know exactly where the courage is: in the bottle of bottom-shelf wine that’s been chilling on the door of the refrigerator.

 _You’re being a child_ , you scold yourself this balmy Friday night. _You had more self confidence back when you were in high school._

Pacing the kitchen, unlocking and locking your phone over and over, is doing nothing to help. That’s when you tug open the fridge and yank out the bottle of wine. Thirty seconds of digging around in the utensil drawer for a bottle opener pass before you see the bottle has a screw top. _Nice, [Y/N],_ your inner monologue continues with the self-deprecation. _Keep it classy._

You wrench the cap off and contemplate a glass before bringing the bottle up to your lips.

One, two, three, _four_ deep gulps and you set the bottle down.

“Okay,” you say aloud to no one.

You unlock your phone (again), open your contacts, and press _call_ on Terushima’s.

It rings.

 _Oh my God,_ you think, your heart in your throat. _Why the hell did I call? He doesn’t have my contact, he won’t answer an unknown number, I should have texted_ —

“Hello?”

Your pacing ceases as you freeze like a deer in headlights. Several agonizing seconds pass before you find your voice.

“Hi,” you say finally, hitting yourself in the head with the heel of your hand. “Terushima?”  
“That’s me,” he says, the words light with that airy confidence he’s had ever since you were teenagers.

“Hi,” you say again, resting an elbow on the countertop and running a hand down your face. _God, I sound like an idiot._ “This is [Y/N]. Uh—I mean, [L/N].”

“No way!” he exclaims, and you can hear the smile in his voice. Like magic, your muscles relax. “Sorry. I didn’t have your number saved.”  
“Yeah, I know. I got your number from Hana. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Nah, not at all. I had a feeling she’d blab once I asked about you.”

“Oh!” you say quickly. “She didn’t.” You’re tense again. Why is this so hard? “I mean, I guess she did, but I asked first. Er, about you.”

“Huh,” he says, the smile still present in his voice. “Is that so?”

You find yourself blushing furiously, your face heating up a thousand degrees. You _knew_ you should have written a script. A cheat sheet, at the very least.

“Yeah,” you say, drawing the word out to buy yourself time. You take a deep breath. “I can’t stop thinking about that night at the bar.”

 _Nice, [Y/N]._ You eye the bottle of wine longingly. _Honesty is good. Maybe not that honest though._

Terushima’s tone turns more serious. “Me neither,” he says, and your heartbeats trip over themselves. “How are you? Are you...feeling okay?”

You swallow before speaking, your mouth suddenly dry.

“I’m fine, thanks. That’s actually why I called.” You take another deep breath. “I wouldn’t be if it weren’t for you. Fine, that is. I really needed to thank you.”

“You didn’t,” he says, his voice soft. Your ribcage suddenly seems to house an overexcited canary. “Anyone would have done what I did.”

“Not anyone,” you tell him gently.

His only response is to sigh into the receiver and you know he sees the truth in your words.

“I guess,” you say, your voice turning more shrill than usual. “I guess,” you try again, willing yourself to remain calm, “that’s not the only reason I called.” You screw your eyes shut and charge ahead. “I was wondering if you would like to meet for a drink?”

There’s a lingering silence during which you imagine burrowing beneath the ground to live out your days as a lonesome, humiliated mole person.

 _Why would he want to see you? You’ve never brought him anything but a broken nose and a bloodied fist. He probably never wants to see you again. He_ —

“Seriously?” he interrupts your thoughts, sounding surprised and maybe even pleased. “[Y/N], a thank you is more than enough. More than I needed. You don’t owe me anything.”

“I know,” you say quickly. “I just...want to. See you. Again.” Your speech comes haltingly as it tries to keep up with what you’ve newly admitted to yourself.

There’s a charged pause before he speaks.

“Oh.”

The one word is colored bright by his grin. You open your mouth, prepared already to fall into old habits and retaliate whatever teasing anecdote he might tack on. But he leaves it at that.

And your own lips turn up in a smile.

“So,” you say, feeling like you could walk on air. “How does tomorrow night sound?”

“Sounds great,” he says, still smiling into his phone. “Let’s meet somewhere different this time though, okay? Somewhere nice?”

The canary in your chest fights to break free. You beat it back and struggle to compose yourself before replying.

“Yes, please.”

A short giggle escapes you and your blush comes back in full force.

Terushima chuckles, low and throaty. You could just _die_ at the sound of it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night, [Y/N].”

“I look forward to it.”

The line goes dead.

Your bottle of wine remains untouched the rest of the night. You feel drunk on something else. Something much more organic.

* * *

The place Terushima picks is nice.

Like, much nicer than you anticipated. Not dress-shoes-or-no-admission nice, but leagues ahead of smells-like-beer-and-toilet-water-or-maybe-the-beer-is-toilet-water not nice.

You enter through the lobby and, after seeing the front desk clerk behind her tall desk topped with a bell, realize calling the place “The Bar at the Inn” isn’t a stab at being swanky and hip. It is, quite literally, a bar at an inn. The stained hardwood staircase on your right leads up to what you assume are the guest rooms. The coat rack and armchair in the small lobby look like 19th century vintage pieces. The place has an undeniable charm, very speakeasy meets Victorian.

It’s the last thing you expected from Terushima.

You wander the rest of the way in, towards the bar, and see that in addition to the barstool seating there are more Victorian revival sofas and armchairs scattered about the space. You get the overall impression you’ve walked into some chic academic’s living room and feel immediately out of place in your outfit—maybe some tweed and a turtleneck would have been better than the black day-to-night slip dress you chose.

“[Y/N]!”

You lift your gaze to see Terushima waving to you from the end of the bar. The canary in your abdomen seems to have invited a friend over. Or two, you decide, taking in his tailored khakis and the way the sleeves of his button-up hug his biceps. He stands to greet you as you approach and marvel at the way this basic display of decency pleases you so deeply.

“Hi,” you greet, suddenly breathless.

Terushima seems much more sure of himself tonight, more comfortable around you, than he did at your last encounter. You realize with a pang that he must have felt like you were delicate blown glass in his hands that night—one wrong move and you would shatter.

And so you make a show of accepting his friendly embrace, even going so far as to do one of those half cheek kisses aunties save for each other at dinner parties. Your cheek brushes his and you try to make the phoney kissy noise to drive it home, but you find it hard when your lips are already pulled tight in a genuine smile.

“Take a seat, m’lady,” he tells you, gesturing a bit dramatically to the barstool beside his.

“Why thank you, sir,” you find yourself saying with the same mocking air of formality. “This is a cool place,” you comment in a normal tone. You wonder if he’ll hear the unspoken accusation: _much nicer than I thought you would suggest._

“Cool, isn’t it? A friend of mine recommended it for a d—for something like this.”

“Hm,” you hum, wondering why you feel so damn giddy right now. “I like it. I’ll do my research next time, though. Make sure I know how to dress.”

“What are you talking about?” Terushima demands. You see his tongue ring sparkle when it catches the low light. Your palms start to sweat. “You look great.”

You blush and turn your attention to the cocktail menu to distract from your lack of a good response.

“What’s your drink of choice?” you ask conversationally.

“Used to be any type of lager,” Terushima responds easily. You envy his confidence and try to discreetly wipe your clammy palms on the skirt of your dress. “Lately I lean towards scotch. Neat.”

You turn your gaze back to him and quirk an eyebrow inquisitively.

“What?” he questions, a small smirk forming on his mouth. “You surprised that I have respectable taste?”

You snort. “Surprised is an understatement,” you say before you can stop yourself.

He raises his eyebrows and parts his lips playfully.

 _God, the places I would kill to feel that tongue ring,_ you think before you can catch yourself. _Wait, wha_ — _?_

“Tell me more,” he says, and you feel a thrill at the gentle command.

“It’s pretty self explanatory,” you begin, stamping down the impure thoughts that seem to be brimming in your head, their wellsource certainly sin itself. “A classy bar, impeccable manners, a decent drink order.” You pause and search his almond colored eyes for...you’re not sure what. “What you did for me that night? That was the biggest surprise yet.”

Terushima shifts uncomfortably in his seat, almost imperceptibly averting his eyes. You study his face for some tell of what he might be thinking. You find none.

“You’ve changed a lot since high school.”

“Yeah,” he replies, running a hand through his hair. “I would hope so.”

The bartender appears then to take your orders and the mood shifts back to where it was before. Somewhere easier for both of you to navigate.

“You’ve changed a lot since high school too, you know,” says Terushima two drinks later.

The bartender sets your third drink in front of you as you cross your arms impishly.

“Have I?” you retort. “How so?”

“Ugh.” Terushima rolls his eyes good-humouredly. “Do you even _know_ how uptight you were? I could never understand how Hana-san could stand to spend so much time with you. Although, she also had something up her—ow!“

You swat his arm with a _touch_ more force than is necessary.

“We were _not_ uptight!” you say shrilly, though a smile tugs at your lips.

“Oh really?” asks Terushima, leaning an inch closer. A small, nearly undetectable inch. But you notice. His clean, masculine scent meets your nose. “Why did I never see you at any of the basketball team’s parties then? _Everyone_ went to the basketball team’s parties.”

The look in his eyes, slightly hooded from the alcohol and your close proximity, says _checkmate._ Indeed, you do feel like he got you. For a split second.

“Well, Yuuji,” you drawl, shrinking the space between you by yet another inch. Your knees touch. Is _he_ the one flushed now? “If ‘everyone’ attended those parties, as you say, how do you know you just never noticed me in the crowd?”

“I would have noticed you,” he says, his voice low.

His words find their way straight to your nether regions, where they coat your insides like melted caramel. You watch his gaze fall to your lips. Your heart stutters.

You panic, turning away and taking a gulp of your fresh drink.

“Part of me wonders if you’re the same as you were then,” says Terushima, recovering much more easily than you. “Uptight, that is.”

Your mouth falls open in mock astonishment at his words. He shrugs flirtatiously.

“I was _never_ uptight,” you declare. _Um, you totally were,_ your inner voice betrays you. You ignore it. “I certainly am not these days.”

“All right then,” he says, leaning precariously back on his seat. “Prove it.”

You raise an eyebrow.

He stands quickly, holding a hand out to you.

“Dance with me.”

 _“What_?” you demand, casting nervous glances at the patrons around you. Everyone is comfortably seated, legs or ankles crossed, sipping at their fancy little cocktails. A steady tempoed, velvety blues plays over the sound system. “We can’t just get up and dance at a place like this.”

“Why does it matter where we are? What’s the point if we can’t have some fun?”

Maybe it’s the two and a half drinks working their way through your bloodstream, or (more likely) perhaps it’s Terushima’s bright eyes and enticing smirk. Whichever the reason may be, one of them compels you to take his hand and let him tug you through the small room to the connecting lobby, in full view of the other, stuffier patrons.

Neither of you speak. Terushima stops when carpet changes to hardwood and, without giving you a chance to brace yourself, lifts your arm overhead and twirls you around. You can’t stifle the delighted squeal that escapes your throat.

You fall against him, finding you fit just right against his chest, and let him lead you haphazardly through the steps to his improvised drag. By the time the final chorus comes around, several people are watching unabashedly, smiling and chatting happily. Another couple even gets up to join you. At the conclusion of the tune, Terushima drops you into a sloppy dip perfectly in time with the last chord.

Flushed and breathless, you let him tug you back upright as another, much slower song starts up. Instead of feeling the expected, nagging urge to return to your seat and drown your embarrassment in your drink, you find yourself swaying in time to your second dance, taking his lead. A third couple makes their way to the “dancefloor” you and Terushima created.

“See,” he says against the shell of your ear, in a low voice meant just for you. You shut your eyes, trying to force down the flock of canaries in your gut. “Nothing wrong with having a little fun.”

“Who said I’m having fun?” you murmur back, refusing to stand down.

“Aren’t you?”

You rest your head on his shoulder, feeling the soft linen of his shirt against your cheek. His scent envelopes you. One of his hands cradles yours and the other rests on your lower back. You feel it burning through the fabric of your dress, through your skin, and straight to your core.

“This may, in fact, be the worst night of my life.”

“Ah, I see,” he says, the space between his lips and your ear vanishing. You shiver at the delicate contact. “In that case, we should make room out here for someone who might enjoy themselves.”

You involuntarily mold yourself more closely against his chest. He chuckles.

“Maybe you haven’t changed after all,” you say. “Still a pain in the ass.”

He laughs outright this time and, before you know it, you’re laughing with him.

A short while later, you’re gathering your purse while Terushima closes his tab (“no, you will not pay me back. Fine, drinks on you next time, then”). You smile gently when he holds the door open for you and you step out into the warm, early summer night.

You turn his way to ask which direction he needs to go and find his brow furrowed and his jaw set.

“Hey,” you say softly, taking a step towards him. “Are you okay?”

He inhales deeply and avoids making eye contact.

“Listen, [Y/N], something’s been bothering me.”

You shake your head and bite your lip, suddenly nervous.

“What is it?” The question hardly comes out above a whisper.

Your mind is racing with the possibilities. _He doesn’t want to see you again. He’s not over his ex. He’s got a girlfriend. He has six months to live. He_ —

“Are you afraid of me?”

You blanch, the expression quickly turning to a teasing grin.

“Afraid of my knight in shining armor? No. How could I be?”

Terushima doesn’t smile back and you quickly realize how seriously he’s taking you.

Little do you know, that for as long as he lives Terushima will never forget the way your face had looked as you left the vice principal’s office all those years ago. The way you had so clearly been on the brink of tears, and understandably so.

Neither will he soon forget the feeling in his gut when he realized he was getting away with what he’d done to you, that the authority figure _he_ was meant to be answering to had turned on _you_. It was almost as if the punishment that accompanied the crime made it worth it. No, made it excusable. At least he was paying for his actions, right? 

But with no punishment came no satisfaction.

Only guilt.

And something about the repulsive, leering guy slipping roofies in your drink that night had made something click. Terushima knew he would never push you too far, would never do a thing without your consent (all right, touching you after that game was a serious affront. He knows that now). 

But did _you_ realize this? 

Every time Terushima complimented your pretty lips, told you how much he wanted you, cornered you in the school halls, did you see him the same way he was seeing that pervert at the bar? With a sinking feeling it occurs to him that yes, you were. To you he was no better. No different at all.

“Were you back then?” he asks, taking in the way your skin reflects the late night city lights.

 _Beautiful_ , he thinks, but little do you know.

“Do you want the truth?” you ask, your voice thick. You search his face for anything that might give him away.

His eyes harden with resolution and he nods.

“Not most of the time,” you tell him, shrugging your shoulders with forced nonchalance. “But when we were alone it was hard not to be.” You look down at the ground before returning your gaze to his face. “At least a little bit.” You sigh, frustrated with yourself and your struggle to express the right words. “I mean, you’re tall and athletic. Just knowing that you _could_ overpower me if you wanted to was more than enough to...put me on edge.”

You swallow and try to catch his eye.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and you can tell he means it.

“I know,” you say, and you really do. “But, Yuuji, if things had ever escalated beyond what they did we wouldn’t be here right now. No matter how many creeps you might protect me from. You know that, right?”

He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he nods.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, finally meeting your eye.

And finally you see it, written across his face as clear as day. How much he’s changed from the boy you loathed in high school.

 _I still don’t really know how I feel about all of it,_ you had told Hana on the phone.

You take the one small step needed to close the distance between you. Craning your neck, you plant a sweet, lingering kiss on his cheek.

“I know.”

* * *

You want to say you’re not quite sure how you started sleeping with Terushima, but that would be a lie.

It turns out, when it comes to his sexual prowess, what you thought was all talk has a very sharp bite. And, sure, maybe six or seven years ago, at seventeen, when he was leaving explicit notes in your locker outlining “what he would _do_ to you” he couldn’t have been much of a sex god yet.

But _now,_ as a young adult, you find your expectations of him surpassed yet again. Fucking Terushima is unlike anything you’ve experienced before. He’s not afraid to let you have your way, to coax you to your end with every trick in the book, to take it rough only to stroke your hair and curl up at your side after.

It starts in July.

“Wow,” you say, slipping off your shoes.

“What do you think?” he grins at you, bounding from the entryway and opening his arms wide.

What you think is that Terushima’s apartment is going to be item number you’ve-lost-count on your list of things about him that surprise you.

“It’s...actually really nice,” you say, comfortable enough with him now that you don’t bother to mask your incredulity.

“I swear, [Y/N], you don’t give me any credit.”

You give him a sarcastic look and roll your eyes.

“If it makes you feel better, I wouldn’t give many guys our age much credit in this department.” You pause to look around. “You especially strike me as the type who would have nothing but a mattress on the floor, a fifty inch TV and a lawn chair.”

He makes a dramatic, guttural sound in his throat and clutches his heart. “You wound me. Home decor is my passion.”

“Shut up,” you scoff, smiling.

Truly, the space is impressive. It’s a small studio but he’s managed to make it feel less cramped. There is in fact an impressive TV mounted on the wall, but the tiny kitchen is neat and clean, there’s a tastefully simple white rug on the floor, a beige sofa, and (“check it out,” he says, waving a tiny remote at you) LED lights around the ceiling’s perimeter. You suppose you can’t blame him for that, you think as you look at his now blue-tinted smile; they’re trendy lately. The headboard on the bed (an actual headboard!) makes up for them.

“So,” he says, “what’ll it be? Coffee? Tea? Shot of tequila?”

His enthusiasm is contagious. A warm feeling grows in your abdomen as you realize how genuinely excited he is to be finally showing off his apartment to you.

This is the first time you two are in either of your homes; over the several weeks that have passed since the first time you went out you’ve managed to see each other a handful more. He’s fun, and sexy, and much, much more intelligent than you ever gave him credit for back in high school. He’s also a little piece of home in a big, far away city. His presence in your life is a comfort. You’re pleasantly surprised by the way he seems to fit snugly and comfortably in your day to day life, like the missing piece of a puzzle. And though your attraction to Terushima has grown with each meeting, you were always appreciative of the way each date he suggested was somewhere public. He’s managed to toe the line between respectfully flirtatious and presumptuous without crossing it.

For example: holding open doors with a hand dangerously low on your back; tucking your hair behind your ear, letting his fingers trail down your throat to your collarbone, followed by a chaste kiss on your forehead; tugging you into his lap on a park bench, keeping you perched innocently on his knee, but placing searing lips on your exposed shoulder.

To name a few.

“Hm,” you hum, joining him in the kitchen and boldly wrapping your arms around his waist. “How about a shot,” you smile up at him as he holds you against his chest, “to loosen up. Then some tea.”

“Loosen up?” he asks, tilting his face towards yours. You can feel his breath on your lips. It’s sweet and pleasant and warm. “What for? Feeling tense?”

“Very,” you murmur, your heart beating faster with each passing second. “I could use all the help I can get.”

He beams down at you and kisses your forehead. You’re left standing, dumbfounded, as he procures two mugs from the cabinets and begins fixing tea.

You look down at the goosebumps that rose on your arms and picture the flush on the skin of your decalotage. Then you smooth your hair unnecessarily, anxiously, before turning your back to Terushima and wandering from the kitchen.

All of a sudden you’re doubting everything you’ve come to think over the last however many weeks. Does he not see you... _like that_ at all? Is that why he hasn’t kissed you yet? Is that why he just _dissed_ you in the kitchen? You were so sure, when after some conversational fumbling, the two of you decided you would come over after dinner that it was finally _happening_. But maybe he’s just a touchy, affectionate guy who sees you as a friend.

Does he even like women?

“Milk or sugar?” he asks from the kitchen.

You turn back around and look at him, willing him to forget about the tea and just read your mind. Ease this abrupt onslaught of doubt you’re experiencing.

Of course, he can’t read your mind, so your silence is only met with a questioning look thrown over his shoulder.

“Hello? Anybody home?”

“What are we doing here?” you question hurriedly, before you can chicken out.

With that he does seem to forget about the tea. He faces you, leaning against the counter behind him.

“What do you mean?” he responds to your question with a question. “We just talked about it at the restaurant.” He looks nervous, now. “I thought you wanted to.”

“I did!” you say quickly. You make your way to him and rest a hand on either of his biceps. 

_These are pretty nice_ — _don’t get distracted!_

“I _really_ did,” you continue, biting your lip and crossing your arms as if they’ll defend your vitals from impending rejection. “But now that we’re here I’m wondering if we’re on the same page.”

Terushima swallows. You watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down, struggling to meet his eye.

_God, I want to bite his throat._

_Focus!_

“What page is that?” asks Terushima softly.

You look up at the ceiling, your exasperation thinly veiled. Is he really going to make you say it? Mail it on formal letterhead? Perhaps spell it out in alphabet soup?

“Are you not attracted to me?” you force out in a small voice.

“Am I not—am I—?” you manage to crack a smile at the way he flounders. “Of course I am, [Y/N]. You know that.”

“I don’t!” you exclaim, smiling a bit to dull the edge on your words “You haven’t made a move. I’ve been waiting, trying to drop hints—”

“Hints? What hints?”  
“Tons of hints! Just now! I was all, ‘ooh I’m so tense, help me loosen up’ and you were like, ‘hm, now’s a perfect time for some tea’!”

Terushima stares at you, mouth agape, and runs his hands through his hair.

“I have been trying _so_ hard not to pressure you in any way! I mean, we have a history, you know? I’m trying to be respectful here. The only reason I didn’t rip your clothes off as soon you walked through the door is because I didn’t want you to think that coming over to my place meant there were any—any...expectations!” He takes a deep breath before continuing in a much smaller voice. “From me.”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

The kiss starts awkward but sweet. You think you initiate, but if so he certainly meets you halfway. Once you wrap your arms around his neck, however, his movements become more sure. He weaves his hands through your hair, tugging you flush against him and sealing his lips over yours. You can’t help but smile into the kiss. He smiles back, his warm breath fanning against your mouth as he chuckles.

“Is this really happening?”

You can’t help but blush at the awe he says it with.

“Yes.”

He peppers your lips with kisses as you tug him the short distance towards the bed. _Finally_ , you think, dropping your hands from his neck to grip the hem of his shirt. He wastes no time in helping you tug it over his head. You can’t resist running your hands over the planes of his sculpted chest and over his broad shoulders. His hands have found their way to the zipper at the back of your dress, but you feel them fumble as you crane your neck to plant hot kisses along his throat, up to his jaw, and finally taking the lobe—earring and all—between your teeth. His scent sends your head spinning.

Terushima groans into your hair and wrenches the zipper down forcefully. The action ignites something within you, and with the same fervor you grab at the button of his pants and pull them part of the way down. He tumbles backwards onto the bed, pulling you down on top of him. If his touches hadn’t turned so heated, if you weren’t so turned on by the sight of him beneath you, you might have giggled self consciously. Instead, you adjust so he can kick his pants the rest of the way off and quickly follow suit, stripping your dress and tossing it to the side.

Once you’re both in nothing but your underwear, he reaches up without a word to fist the back of your hair and pull your lips back down to his. Your moan is muffled as you straddle his lap, grinding against the bulge in his briefs. Your kisses turn more heated, slower, wetter and more sensuous. You groan against his mouth after a particularly delicious roll of your hips sends roiling pleasure to your core. His hands grip your ass, gingerly, as if you’re made of china. Something about the way he’s letting you take charge makes your gut coil with arousal.

You sink your teeth into his lower lip, hard, and pull. You relish the feeling of his flesh between your teeth, but not nearly as much as the way his eyes widen and cheeks flush. You seize your opportunity to slip your tongue in his mouth, at long last feeling that probing metal ball. It turns you riotous with pleasure, just this little taste of it, of him, and you pull the wet muscle further into your mouth.

He lets you, and you suck on it, in and out and in, in time with the movement of your hips. Moan after moan peals from his chest, a mixture of your saliva and his dribbling down his chin.

You come from the friction of your dry humping, finally releasing his tongue to cry out. He clutches you against him, eyes wide, as if he can’t believe you’re really convulsing against him from the strength of your orgasm. As you come down from your high, you look at him with hooded eyes, swiping the spit from his chin with your thumb.

He kisses you softly, his cock twitching against you.

“Sit on my face. Please. Please, I want to taste it. You.”

His pleas make you ache for more. For him. You nod, kissing him again, and clamor up as he lies down flat on his back.

He licks you through your panties and you shiver. His big hands stroke up and down your thighs, the gentleness a sweet contrast to his working mouth. Soon your panties are thoroughly soaked with your juices and his saliva. Each passage of his tongue ring over your clothed clit sends an electric shock through you, straight up your spine.

“Yes, yes, more,” you pant, unable and unwilling to stop the words from tumbling from your mouth.

It’s all he needs. In a surprising show of dominance, he gathers the thin material of your panties in his fists and tears them straight off you.

Your mouth falls open.

“Oh my god,” you say, incredulous and unbelievably turned on. “You are so gonna pay for that.”

“I hope so,” he mumbles from between your legs.

You come almost immediately. One, two swipes of that hard metal ball on your bare clit and you’re unraveling. You throw your head back with a silent scream, your thighs quivering on either side of Terushima’s head. His grip has your pussy locked in place against his mouth. Your hips buck against his face with each tremor of your orgasm. You wonder vaguely, through the haze, if he can breathe.

As soon as you’re able you begin to squirm your way free. He lets go of your thighs and releases your cunt with a final suck to your clitoris. You shiver as you slither back down the length of his body, kissing him fiercely once your chests meet. He tastes like you, as you expected, and it’s intoxicating. Your tongues slide against each other, wet and eager, and the feeling of that metal piercing sends your cunt drooling.

You suck his lower lip into your mouth and release it with a _pop_. He looks at you with a glazed expression, vaguely confused as to why you’re pulling away.

“I can’t believe you ruined my underwear.”

He smirks and your stomach does cartwheels.

“It was a means to an end.”

You quirk an eyebrow at him before turning your attention down his torso. You run your hands over his toned abdomen and arch your back until you reach your destination.

His briefs are stained with precum. You hook your fingers through the hem and tug them down to reveal his pretty cock. It slaps against his pelvis, not exceptionally long, but thick, the head pink and leaking his arousal. You blow a jet of cool air over it, teasing.

“Oh my G—”

His exclamation turns to a wordless groan as you take it in your mouth, sucking it exactly as you had his tongue. You pull it in and out of your mouth, hollowing your cheeks, deeper and deeper until it hits the back of your throat. You make a point to look up at him once it does in an attempt to catch his eye. They’re screwed shut, however, and you feel a thrum of pride that it’s you making him feel so good. Briefly, you wonder what your seventeen-year-old self would say if someone told her she would one day be eagerly choking on Terushima’s cock. You stifle a snort at the thought and are soon distracted again by the heady taste of him on your tongue.

“Stop,” he says suddenly, looking down at you and grabbing your hair. “I’ll come.”

You take your time pulling your mouth up and off his length. You swipe your tongue over the tip and watch him shudder. When you finally let go, a string of saliva and precum connects your lips to his erection. His expression is glassy and completely enamored.

“What if I want you to?” you purr.

“I want to get fucked first,” he answers quickly.

Your eyes widen and you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. You scramble back up his body, caught off guard by your own eagerness. He sits up and wraps his arms around you, pulling you as close as you can get and kissing you roughly. You grind your hips, dragging your slick folds along his length. You both groan in tandem, and Terushima unclips the hooks of your bra—the last article of clothing between you—and flings it across the room. He latches his mouth onto your right breast, his hands on your ass as you rut against him.

“Please,” he begs again, leaving a wet patch over your nipple. He nips as the skin of your chest and you gasp, jerking your hips more spasmodically against him. He hisses through his teeth. “I need you. Please.”

You nod, one arm on his shoulder to steady yourself and one hand snaking down between you. You grip his wet cock, pumping it once, and he lays down flat. With a final, teasing look, you guide it to your entrance and sink down his length.

Your mouth falls open and your eyes screw shut as Terushima moans, long and wanton. Riding his cock feels deliriously good, and you can’t resist setting a slow, languid pace that admits him to that place deep inside you that makes you melt with desire.

As you ride him, you reach up to lace your fingers through his. He meets your eye, beyond coherent thought, and you position his hands over his head. His head falls back against the mattress and he bucks his hips upwards with each thrust to meet you halfway.

You admire the way he looks beneath you, the sheen of sweat on his skin, the chords in his neck standing out in sharp relief, the way his biceps bulge as he lets you restrain his hands up over his head. You feel your pleasure climb higher and higher with each hot, wet motion of your joined hips.

“God, I’m close. I’m fucking close.”

“Don’t,” you say. “Not yet.”

“Please,” he chokes out, looking at you frantically, “I can hardly—”

Your breathing picks up as your mounting pleasure approaches its peak.

“Come with me,” you demand once it teeters over the edge.

His lips part and his eyes screw shut just as you climax for the third time, and hard. You writhe on top of him, your grip on his hands vicelike. His hips thrust up to you once more, sending you bouncing on his cock, and then you feel the hot seed of his release begin to leak from within you.

Your arms grow limp and, slowly, you settle down against his chest. One of his arms circles your waist, the other up to caress the back of your neck. His erection begins to soften, still inside you, as you kiss him. You taste sweat and sex on his lips.

“That was the best sex of my life,” he mumbles once you part.

“Shut up, Yuuji” you scoff. Silently, you agree.

“I mean it. I really mean it.” He pulls you more tightly against him and you feel the wetness of your combined release on your inner thighs. “You’re the only girl for me. I never want another woman to fuck me as long as i live.”

You smile and kiss his jaw. “And they say romance is dead.”

“What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”

* * *

“Terushima Yuuji, huh? Who would have thought?”

Hana sits across from you at the bustling Tokyo cafe she picked for lunch. Four years since she permanently moved, and you can count on one hand how many times you’ve managed to get away from work and grad school to visit her. But you finally made it. And with big news.

“Not me,” you reply, admiring the way the light catches your diamond engagement ring. “Definitely not me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon: Terushima spent the longest time thinking he was a dom. When he finally realized he couldn’t be more wrong, his sex life improved dramatically.


End file.
